


Admit Me, Chorus to This History

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Mistress to Queen [1]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, GFY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate history or alternate reality, if you will, wherein what some might call a romance is played out between a prince whose passions are power and war and a girl who wants nothing so much as family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Good Heart Is the Sun

_The wail of new life is audible in the silence that had fallen some time ago, a sound that makes his young heart lift a little, even though he knows his new brother or sister - and he hopes it's a sister, he doesn't want to have a brother to compete with - likely will never know their mother. If the baby lives; the brother that had killed his own mother hadn't._

 _His father leaves the table and the fire to go to the bottom of the stairs, looking up them without going up. The midwife had told them to leave the room a few hours ago, without complaint or argument from the rest of the adults. He doesn't understand, since he didn't think his father would let himself be given direction by any woman not the wife of his liege, if even her._

 _It's a long time before the midwife comes down, and he's crept over to his father to wait with him, though the chill is starting to seep through his woolen tunic. Watching the woman come down the stairs, her expression one that makes him shiver with the remembered feeling of fear when his mother hadn't survived trying to bring his brother into the world._

 _There's a well-wrapped bundle in her arms that she hands to his father, murmuring that she knows of a woman in the village who might be hired as a wet-nurse. He watches his father's expression crumple a moment before he looks down at the little bundle. Keeping his focus on the baby while the priest comes down the stairs as well, standing nearby as he waits to be acknowledged._

 _He watches his father, waiting as well, wanting to know if it's a brother or a sister he's supposed to watch out for and hope survives longer than the brother when he was very small. Looking over at the priest when his father doesn't seem to want to ask._

 _"You ought to baptize the child now." The priest finally speaks, without looking down at him, still focused on his father. "Even with a wet-nurse, there's no certainty the girl will survive."_

 _His father glares at the priest a moment before looking back at the baby. Silent long enough that the boy starts fidgeting, worrying what's going on in his father's mind. If his infant sister will ever have a name._

 _When his father finally does speak, his voice is rough and raw with grief. Already mourning the loss of another wife and maybe another child. "Blanche."_

~ ~~ ~

 _He crouches down to look into his sister's solemn eyes, ignoring the fact that he's meant to be preparing to leave, to live with some cousin of his father's who lives a little further from the border with Wales. So he can learn how to be a knight, and how to manage an estate, even as small as their own is, and maybe marry some girl who is the ward of said cousin. It doesn't really matter to him right now._

 _"Don't die while I have to be gone, and I promise I won't get myself killed going off to help fight for the king when I'm old enough." He keeps watching her as the girl reaches out to pat his face with one tiny hand, as if trying to reassure him. "You have to live, or papa will marry someone else, and then I'm going to have to worry about another brother."_

 _"Won't." She shakes her head, making a face, before throwing her arms around his neck. "Mine." It's the possessiveness of a child, and he smiles a moment before patting his sister's back._

 _He sets her back after a moment, meeting her gaze again. "Papa's sending me to our cousin, who has a niece who is a good age to be a wife for me, papa says. She'll be like a sister for you when I bring her home. I have to stay with papa's cousin and learn how to be a soldier and everything first."_

 _"Don't want sister." There's a scowl on her face that's a lot like their father's, and she crosses her little arms._

 _"You'll like her, and she'll like you, I promise." He's determined that whoever the girl is he marries, she'll like his sister, and be good enough that his sister likes her._

 _Standing up again, he heads for the nursery door. He has to finish making sure he has everything packed so he's ready to go when whoever the cousin has sent to fetch him comes._

~ ~~ ~

 _When he returns after a decade away, leaving his wife and tiny daughter safe in the house of her uncle, his sister isn't there to greet him, though he doesn't know that she'd recognize him after ten years away from home. His father almost doesn't, regarding him with a suspicion that hurts more than he will admit before recognition blooms, and he comes to embrace him. There's something worrying in that momentary lack of knowledge, but he doesn't mention it, only asking after how his sister and father have been in his absence._

 _That she's off at the market at Church Stretton makes him wonder if his father's taken leave of his senses; surely the woman who's run the kitchen since he was a boy - Maud, as he recalls - is capable of going to market herself. That his father says she's fallen ill, and he fears she might have the plague only deepens his worry. It shows in his sharp reprimand for letting his sister go to the market at her young age._

 _It doesn't matter that she isn't alone, has gone with the woman he remembers as her wet-nurse, he still worries for her. Enough to suggest perhaps she ought to be fostered elsewhere, someplace safely away from the Welsh border. Only his suggestion is taken poorly, and the fight that it causes forces him to leave before his sister returns home. He doesn't go too far, waiting until he sees his sister escorted home by her former wet-nurse before he even thinks about starting the journey back to his cousin's._

 _He doesn't want to leave without reassuring his sister he did come back after all, but fears more that an attempt to risk returning to the house will only make matters worse. There will be time enough to return when his father dies and he inherits the house and lands. Or when she marries, which he has no doubt will happen sooner._

~ ~~ ~

Blanche hurries along the streets of the village back toward the manor, her basket weighted down with her purchases at the market at Church Stretton, though she's careful not to outpace her escort. She can't afford to be caught out alone, to be delayed too much when she's from home, uncertain if her father will still be lucid and sane when she returns home, or have slipped into one of his states where he remembers the distant past better than the present, if he sees the world at all.

She frowns slightly at the sight of a soldier harassing one of the village girls, wondering when they'd arrived, or if they were English or Welsh. She thinks the former more likely, but it wouldn't be the first time the Welsh have come through the village before. In either case, perhaps she'll see if Maud can't use the extra hand in the kitchens for a few days at least, until the soldiers are gone again.

Unfamiliar horses outside the house, even being tended to by Maud's grandson, make her blood run chill, and Blanche abandons the pretense of keeping her escort with her, not quite bolting to the door, though she knows it's foolish. There's nothing she can do if soldiers hold her father's house, nothing she can do to help him save to send to their lord for help that will come too late.

Drawing a deep breath, she hesitates a brief moment before stepping inside, relaxing only when she hears her father's familiar voice, regaling visitors with some story or another of his youth serving King Edward. Maud is in the door of the kitchen, and Blanche ignores the men to hurry over to trade her basket for the tray of bread the older woman carries, taking over the duties of hostess now that she's home. Even though there are servants to take on such tasks, she prefers to do at least some of it, the better to ensure her father is doing well with the guests.

Robert smiles warmly at her when she comes over to the table, his gaze sharp as it ever is when he's lucid, another relief after a day of fretting. She doesn't expect it will get better, though, until she lays him to rest next to her mother and his previous wife, hopefully with a husband at her side when she does. She doesn't know what she'll do if he doesn't manage that between spells.

Setting the bread on the table, she takes a covert look at the others at the table, though she has no intention of joining them unless her father insists, preferring to take her meals in the solace of a kitchen corner. A way to escape for a few minutes from the pressure of trying to manage all that should be managed by her father, or a husband.

She catches the youngest looking of them watching her, and turns away to go see if Maud needs more help to bring out whatever she's prepared for dinner, focusing on that task to avoid thinking that it was nice to have even a moment's regard from someone she thinks might perhaps be her own age and isn't one of the village boys.

~ ~~ ~

The girl who'd arrived as their dinner was starting to be brought blushes prettily before she turns and vanishes into the kitchen, leaving Henry and his small entourage with their host once more. Sir Robert has been an entertaining host, and continues the story he'd started earlier as more food is brought out, though the girl doesn't come back. Something that seems to cause a troubled frown to cross Sir Robert's face, at least if his query to one of his servants is any measure of the cause.

She doesn't come back until the servants are clearing the table after the meal, and then only to remind their host - her father, he gathers - that they've not the rooms to host even the handful of entourage Henry's brought with him.

"I've already made my apologies to Prince Henry for the lack." Robert reaches out to pat the girl's hand, giving her a smile. "You need not worry about that, my daughter."

Henry gives her a smile he hopes is reassuring, shrugging. "My men can sleep in the hall here, though your father insists I have use of the empty room. I would, I think, prefer to sleep as the others, if they were all as little concerned as I about doing such."

"Of course, Your Highness." Her voice is soft, just loud enough to hear. She meets his gaze for a moment, before blushing again as she looks back to her father, asking permission of him to retire. Though he thinks there is more to it, from the worry that crosses her face as she watches her father. What, he is uncertain.

Nor does he find out much as he might like, though he notices his host's eyes cloud over with something unnamed. It's something the servants are watching for he expects, since they're careful to bring some more wine that they serve only to the host. Perhaps a draught from a physician mixed in, though what he doesn't know, as their host only frowns a moment before drinking the goblet down.

"I must make my apologies, Your Highness, and leave you to the company of your entourage, as I must be to bed. With your leave?" There's a faint distance in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Henry sits back in his chair with a nod to watch Sir Robert as he leaves the hall. He sees a foot on the stairs, the hem of a skirt, before it vanishes again at some subtle signal from the servant hovering attentively at Sir Robert's elbow.

He doesn't know what to make of it all, but soon dismisses it in favor of seeking bed himself, requesting one of the servants show him to the room he might sleep in. Catching a glimpse of a door shutting at the far end of the single corridor that runs the length of the hall below, a door he thinks perhaps belongs to the room of the girl.

~ ~~ ~

Sir Robert joins them for breakfast in the morning, though there's a difference to his reminiscences then, as if there's more of an immediacy to them. It's a curiosity, though not enough of one to impinge on his thoughts during a summer of fighting the Welsh and Glyndwr. Only as winter is coming on, and he's once more come to a the small village outside Church Stretton as the day's ending does it even pass through his mind, and then only because Sir Robert seems to be absent when they're admitted, and provided dinner as they'd been before.

Only his daughter is seen, and then only long enough to greet them, and later to hurry through the hall with a tray that holds a meal. To serve to Sir Robert in the privacy of his own chambers, he suspects, but why their host - so careful to attend on them previously - is remaining secluded is another curiosity on top of the remembered one of months before.

After their meal, there's as yet no sign of their host, and Henry goes up the stairs in search of Sir Robert, leaving his entourage to find themselves places to sleep on the floor as they had the time before. A servant slips out of a door as he comes up the stairs, a troubled frown on his face that fades into careful blankness when he sees Henry.

"Does Your Highness require anything?"

"Only an answer to why our host has been yet absent this evening." Henry doesn't know that he'll get an answer so easily, but there is no harm in seeking it from one who might know.

"Sir Robert is suffering from an old injury in the weather, and cannot leave his bed. I'm sure Lady Blanche has conveyed his apologies to you." The servant made obligatory obeisance before slipping past Henry to the stairs. Leaving him with more questions than have been answered. And if the daughter is the way to get those answers, perhaps he shall have to find her and ask her.

~ ~~ ~

Blanche struggles to keep the dismay from her face as her father tries once more to go toward the door, glad for the servants she's hired from the village that help to direct him back into the room again before he can go out and disturb their guests. Guests he should have played host to this evening, if he'd been well enough to do so, and she hopes perhaps he might regain enough of his mind to attend on them at breakfast. Instead of leaving her to do so in his stead.

A knock on the door makes her go very still a moment, and she closes her eyes when her father tells the servant at the door to let whoever is at the door in, since he isn't allowed to go out. She nods after a brief hesitation, hoping it's merely Father Thomas come later in the day than he might usually arrive.

That it's the prince instead isn't so much a surprise as a cause for further dismay, with Sir Robert in his current state. She dips nervously, tilting her head for a moment while doing her best to keep an eye on her father, who's giving Henry a puzzled look as if he's not quite sure who he is. Blanche hurries forward, intent on making some excuse before her father can speak to ask who he is.

"My apologies, Your Highness, but please, I must beg of you to leave my father to his rest. He is not well, and ..."

"I am well enough, my girl, that I don't need a nursemaid to keep watch over me." Sir Robert gives her an indulgent look, and gives her a dismissive gesture. "Go, tend to your husband instead. I shall be in fine company with these good men."

She's not sure what to make of that for a moment, staring at her father in disbelief. "Father!" That there are times when he doesn't truly recognize her in these states, she knows, but she never quite expected him to make such a foolish statement in front of someone outside their own household. And to make such an assumption, when he's not even as yet made arrangements for her to be betrothed to someone makes her blood run chill.

A hand on her arm stops her when she would have taken a step back toward her father, Henry drawing her attention back to him. His expression is one she isn't entirely certain she can read, beyond the demand for answers. Answers she can't give here without upsetting her father further, and perhaps risk making this episode of madness last longer. So she allows him to pull her out of the room, closing the door behind her, though she hesitates to go further for a moment.

He raises an eyebrow, a frown on his face, and she looks down at the floor for a long moment before following him into the room that he had been granted the time before, and likely has every expectation to use it again. There, she stays at the door, leaning against it as he watches her from where he comes to stand near the foot of the bed. Silently, no doubt waiting for an explanation he doesn't feel the need to use words to demand.

"Father's had episodes like this since I can remember," she finally says, keeping her voice quiet, and meeting his gaze only a moment before looking away. "I've no brother, nor uncle nor cousin to ask help of." And she's hesitant to approach her father's liege, fearing what might happen to the house she holds dear, and to her father without her to watch over him.

She looks up to meet his gaze again, not sure what to expect other than condemnation for a woman of gentle birth such as herself living without real protection of any man save her servants. His expression, though, is as unreadable as it had been before, and she bites her lip, not certain what to say or do as the silence stretches out.

"You've done well keeping this hidden." Henry's voice has a note of curiosity to it, and she gives him a slightly puzzled look. It's not at all what she expects, and that makes her worry what he might do.

That all he does afterward is ask a kiss as payment for his ignoring of her situation, and also ask some few questions about her father before letting her leave his room for her own only makes her stay awake longer, staring at her ceiling as she wonders about his reaction, and worries. She gets little sleep that night, creeping down the stairs when dawn is barely breaking to see if Maud might need some help in the kitchen to start her day.

~ ~~ ~

Henry returns early in the next summer, a stop to allow his men to rest for a day before returning to the fighting that will be most of the campaign season. Sir Robert is once more absent, something that surprises him little, though it does make him curious if the knight still lives at all, at least until the girl murmurs apologies for her father, that he is unfortunately abed due to an old injury that still pains him from time to time. She makes sure the meal is served to them before vanishing up the stairs with a tray for her father.

A new favorite in his orbit remarks on the absence of their host while watching Blanche cross the room to the stairs, an expression on his face that's familiar enough. Wondering if her father truly lived, or if it were an excuse to hide that she is a woman alone.

"He was alive enough as of the autumn." Henry shrugs, giving the impression of unconcern regarding the state of the household, though Scroop's observation makes him wonder once more. It won't take more than a few moments to determine the fate of Sir Robert, though he half-expects Blanche wouldn't be nearly so calm if her father had died over the winter. "If troubled as his daughter mentions."

"Unfortunate, then, that he must leave his daughter alone to tend to his guests." Scroop turns his attention back to Henry and the meal that's been laid out for the group once Blanche is out of view.

Not that Henry expects any of his company to bother the girl, save that he himself is curious if this absence of Sir Robert is a new fit, or the same as the one from the autumn. If it is the latter, he thinks it might be best to put the girl in the care of someone better able to look out for her interests, something he doubts her father will do when lost to the world outside his mind.

She doesn't give him the chance to bother Sir Robert in his room, telling him quietly that it's a return of his previous affliction, and there is no need to worry for her now. That she'll be well enough, and doesn't care to leave her father with no one to watch over him. "And he will expect that I am here when he recovers his senses, besides. It would break his heart, I think, to learn I had been taken from him when he could not know it."

It is something to think on when he has a moment to spare between battle-plans and fighting, though it does little more than give him the impression of a loyal daughter protecting her ailing parent as best she knows how. No soldier, perhaps, but with a heart as stout as one to bear the trouble she has.

When the campaign takes them past Church Stretton once more, it's with good cheer that Sir Robert greets them and invites them to stay for a meal, at least, if they might not stay longer. The others in his entourage are glad for the offer, and his soldiers glad for a brief respite even if it will not last long.

Blanche is often at her father's side, though the worried expression he recalls from the first time he'd noted her careful attendance is absent. Perhaps recently come back to his senses, then, and she doesn't expect them to depart him again soon, then, though he doesn't know for certain. Only feeding more the thought that there's more than most women have hiding beneath the demure manners and pretty face. One that often sports pink cheeks when she allows herself to sneak a glance at him, or eyes shadowed with a faint hint of worry.

Henry deliberately takes his entourage through the same village again as the season is ending, and there's little to do but return home. A fact that doesn't go unnoticed by Scroop, who is fast becoming a true favorite and close companion, though he only smiles with more knowledge than is warranted in his gaze. Nor would there be anything to it that evening, even if he had encouragement of the young lady, without the permission of her father, who is well enough to attend to his guests himself.

~ ~~ ~

She can't help but notice when Henry comes past the village again and again, and wonder. If he's perhaps watching for her safety, since he knows of her father's illness, or if he's simply uncertain what to make of her situation. Or if it's perhaps something else, from the glances she gets from the others in his small group, particularly the one who's accompanied him since this spring. Like they're thinking something more is between her and Henry than exists, and it makes her blush to think about it.

And it's something she has the luxury of thinking about for some time, with her father holding onto his mind through the winter and into the spring and the first time Henry comes through the village in the year. It's both a comfort and a frustration to not have the distraction of running the household so others don't suspect the nature of her father's illness, to be alone with her own thoughts and nothing more to concern her than if her father might find her a husband before he slips from the real to the imagined this time.

Something that once more doesn't happen before he starts to slip away again, not quite seeing her for who she is as the summer is in full swing, and rumors begin to be heard that an army marches south to confront the king. That Henry comes to their home as she finally manages to get her father safely behind the door of his room once more only makes her want to wail with frustration instead of greet him with the familiar lie of her father being troubled once more by an old wound.

"My hopes that he recovers swiftly, then, my lady Blanche." Henry gives her a brief smile, and Blanche drops her gaze, too aware her cheeks are warming with a blush at the regard. "I would ask to stay the night, if it would not be too much trouble for him to bear."

"He would have me bid you welcome, Your Highness, and see that you have a meal, as I have before." Blanche has already moved away from the door to allow him and his entourage in, keeping her gaze on the floor, though she makes note out of the corner of her eye that they're all the same as came with him in the spring. After that, she's more concerned with ensuring there is food for all, and that a servant has her father's tray - at the moment, she's not sure if her presence wouldn't do more harm than good. She keeps to the kitchen for her own meal, eating in the familiar presence of Maud and the girl the older woman is teaching to take over her tasks in the house.

When she would have gone to clear the remains of the meal away, Maud scolds her instead to finish her own meal, taking her helper with her to lend a hand where she requires it to bring all back to the kitchen. One of the men who follows Henry returns with them, bearing the heavy cauldron that he'd also taken from Blanche when she'd brought it out. Lord Scroop, if she recalls correctly, and she can see from the frown on Maud's face that she doesn't like the attention he's paying to the girl that's her helper.

"M'lord." Blanche keeps her voice quiet, though she can't prevent a sharp note creeping into it for all that. "If I might ask that you leave my father's servants be. She has chores to which she must attend, and I would thank you not to distract her."

Scoop at least turns his attention from the girl, allowing her to be herded toward whatever chore Maud has in mind for now. Blanche knows that the older woman will keep the girl too busy to even think about whatever offer Scroop has made until all she might do is sleep tonight.

"If she doesn't find cause to object, it should be no concern of yours, Lady Blanche." Scroop is watching her with a curious expression on his face, though he keeps a polite distance. A smile crosses his face a moment, to accompany a knowing gleam in his eye before he makes a brief, polite bow, and leaves. If not without another smile at the girl that's as much invitation as anything else.

The encounter leaves Blanche unsettled as she finishes what she can of her dinner, and scurries for the stairs, preferring to be up in her own room with her thoughts for once. A chance she doesn't get, as one of the servants that helps to keep her father contained when he's not in his right mind stops her at the top of the stairs to murmur that the prince insisted he wished to speak with her father, and he didn't dare refuse a royal command.

It doesn't help that she knows Henry is aware of the nature - if perhaps not the depth - of her father's illness, and Blanche bites her lip to keep tears from forming, nodding her thanks instead. Telling him he had the right of it, and she'll deal with the situation, however it might turn out.

She doesn't expect to find her father animatedly telling Henry stories of his younger years, almost as if he has full control of his mind. A hope that's quickly discarded when he looks at her with a puzzled frown, interrupting his story to ask, "Who is this?" Glancing at Henry a moment in question. "Your wife?"

That he does not recognize her is only to be expected if he's still in the grip of this fit, as he'd ceased to recognize her almost a fortnight earlier. It's still painful, particularly when he echoes a sentiment that he'd expressed nearly two years before, if in different words then. Blanche barely keeps her expression even, dipping her head a moment in a politeness that also has the benefit of allowing her a moment to compose herself before she has to look up again.

Henry holds out his hand for her, meeting her gaze with a warm smile that she can almost believe, encouraging her to come over. Playing to her father's delusion, perhaps, though he only gives her father her name in answer to the question asked. He doesn't, though, allow her to leave, keeping her there by his grip on her hand. Asking her father if he might finish the story he has begun before Henry takes his leave of him.

It's one she's familiar enough with to know how it began, and how it will end, allowing her to let her mind run in circles undistracted. Watching her father while she pretends to study the floor, glad to at least see some animation in his features, to see he looks almost as if he's entirely there rather than holding some distance in his eyes that betrays he's living more in his mind than in the world.

When it's done, he shoos them off, giving Henry a smile that echoes the knowing ones that some of the entourage downstairs have given her before. Save that it hurts to see it on that familiar, beloved face, and Blanche only manages to keep tears from forming until she's safely in the darkness of the hallway. She bites her lip to keep from letting out a sob, tugging at her hand in Henry's grip as she tries to pull away.

Instead of letting go, he reaches up a hand to cup her cheek, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. It's a kindness that makes her lift her free hand up to muffle a sob that she can't hold back, and a moment later, she feels his hand slip away so he can wrap his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in and letting her press her face to his shoulder to hide her tears. Lending her strength, perhaps, when she has no one else she can rely on - and shouldn't be giving in to the urge to lean on him, either. To give substance to thoughts of others that have no reality to them.

~ ~~ ~

Henry knows he shouldn't have insisted upon visiting Sir Robert when he's been secluded in his room, at least if the last time he'd seen him in that state had been any measure. That the man had recognized him for who he was had been a bit of a surprise, and that he hadn't recognized his own daughter equally as much of one. He'd done what he might to spare Blanche more trouble, though he had been able to feel the tension in her while her father finished regaling him with a story of his service to King Richard.

And now, as she leans against him, silent sobs wracking her, he wonders if he had done her more a disservice than anything else in keeping her there. He's not even quite sure why he had, save that he'd not truly wanted to let her out of his sight. Tightening his grip on her shoulders a moment, Henry leans his head down to kiss her temple.

He's surprised when she turns her head, shifting against him and going up onto her toes to press her lips against his. A boldness that's followed by her ducking her head and pulling away as much as he'll allow her. No doubt blushing as she has every time she has looked toward him since he met her.

"Please, stay." It's not an honorable thing to ask, but he silently tells himself that if she refuses and pulls away again, he'll let her go. Never mind that all he's seen of her feeds a desire that isn't one he ought ask of a woman of her gentle birth.

She is still a moment, as if balanced on the edge between pulling away and leaning in once more, before he hears a soft sigh, and Blanche relaxes against him. He keeps her there a moment longer before letting go of her hand, seeking the door to the room he's been given use of, and drawing her inside with him. The door shuts with a quiet thump, and he reaches up to cup her cheek once more, leaning in to kiss her properly.

Her hands come up to rest on his shoulders, trembling slightly in fear or anticipation, though he's not quite sure which until she responds to his kiss. Leaning into him, her hands steadying after a moment as she grips his doublet to pull herself closer. Allowing him to untie the laces of her kirtle without protest, pulling away to allow him to remove it. The linen of her chemise is soft under his hands as he pulls her with him toward the bed, leaning down to kiss her again, hungrier now that he's had a taste of her.

His doublet is shed nearly as quickly, Blanche only hesitating a moment before undoing the buttons with nimble fingers. Shirt and hose follow rapidly, and he encourages her cautious exploration, gathering her chemise up so he can slide his hands beneath it, over warm curves. Drawing quiet gasps from her and bolder touches, and he draws in a breath when she wraps a hand around his rigid length through his braies, fighting the urge to spend himself then and there.

The chemise is left crumpled on the floor a moment later, his braies removed with a little more effort before he lays her back on the bed, crawling after her. Leaning down to kiss her once more with a hunger that's almost demanding, lifting her hips so he can more easily slide into her. Letting his hands roam with little thought beyond ensuring she had as much pleasure from this as he did, keeping the movements of his hips shallow and slow until she responds to his touch once more.

Her fingers dig into his shoulders as he increases the pace of his thrusts, pulling him closer. He groans quietly as he covers her body with his own, supporting his weight on his elbows as he kisses her, trying to draw this out as long as he can. His movements become erratic as he spends himself in her, leaning heavily against her for several moments before he shifts to one side, satiated and comfortable.

She doesn't move for a long moment, before she curls in closer to him, letting him wrap his arm around her waist, holding her there for now. She murmurs softly that she shouldn't stay, though she makes no effort to leave. Sleeping comfortably in his arms until the gray, pale light of dawn starts to filter into the room, and she wakes to wriggle away. Henry lets her go, watching as she pulls on chemise and kirtle, her face pale in the dim light. As if she's realizing what she's done, and regretting it.

~ ~~ ~

Morning brings only another day and a creeping uncertainty over what she'd done the night before. Blanche doesn't even dare to think Henry might marry her, which would make the worry pointless, not when he's noticed her little before, save that she's run the household more than her father at times when he's been in her father's house. She doesn't look back as she laces her kirtle, and hurries out of the room. It's little effort to slip past the still-sleeping men in the hall and into the kitchen, where she can stir the fire to start the day.

Maud is awake before long, shooing her out to the garden that is more often her purview with a faint frown. The familiar chores of tending the plants and gathering herbs for the still room is soothing, though her thoughts still refuse to settle, even when she knows the men have risen and left the house. When she brings the first basket in, Maud sets the maid to scrubbing the floor while she helps Blanche.

"If your father were of right mind, he wouldn't have allowed even a prince to touch you so." Maud stripped flowers from previously dried lavender, keeping her eyes on her task as she spoke. "Not that I put the blame on you, but that he presumed too much."

Blanche takes a little more care in sorting the herbs, her fingers trembling faintly as she tries to settle the roiling in her stomach that Maud's words have brought back. Drawing in a breath, and picking a few leaves from the mint before she ties another bundle for hanging. "Presumed, perhaps, but I did not refuse. Nor, I think, if I had, would he have demanded."

"Still, it was not his to presume." Maud frowns with disapproval, though Blanche doubts it's directed at her. "To bed you as if you were some common girl isn't right. You've better to expect, a husband and a home, not some prince's bastard if it comes to that."

Blanche can feel her cheeks heating, flaming red as apples no doubt, and she forces her thoughts elsewhere, to what must be done for the household and how best to care for her father at the moment. Refusing to allow herself to be burdened by the shame of the night before, or to think further on it. What is done is done, and she would deal with anything further as it came.

~ ~~ ~

 _He thinks he should have returned sooner, for all that his father had told him not to do so while he lived. If he had, perhaps his sister would not have been left unmarried all this time, and turned to Prince Henry as she had for some comfort that should rightly be provided by a husband to his wife. Nor would she have been forced to shoulder the burden of doing all that his father or he ought do, as well as that which his wife shall do when he brings her to Church Stretton._

 _His father at least is well enough to recognize him when he comes to the hall for dinner, and sees him there. Though he frowns darkly when it's mentioned what's happened to Blanche, and will not hear of any ill-spoken words against the prince any more than any here will speak against Blanche. She is more than merely a daughter of the house to them, he thinks, and it's his own foolish and injured pride that's caused that._

 _He's allowed to do nothing but be a guest in what should be his own home once more, and when he mentions bringing his wife here, his father forbids that he do so, saying only that the household is too much Blanche's to allow some strange woman to take control of it. Not when he's done her ill enough in not being able to protect her and provide for her as he ought._

 _The frustration is enough that he leaves once more, returning to his wife in Warwick, and the home he's built on land leased him as he's no land to call his own otherwise. It's only after Christmas and at his wife's quiet insistence that he approaches one of the prince's uncles, carrying a letter from the local priest to the Bishop of Winchester as more an excuse than anything more._

 _When he gains audience to the bishop, he nearly loses his nerve before reminding himself that this is for the sister he's done little enough to help before. That his father has done nothing to provide for as he ought. He doesn't know that he truly expects anything to be done as he lays out what he knows to the bishop. That Prince Henry has taken to using his father's home as a waypoint in his efforts to rid Wales of the pretender prince, that he's shown more interest in Blanche than is proper, and that he enticed her to do what she ought not._

 _Bishop Beaufort asks him only what he expects to be done, since it's clear why he brought the matter to him. All he can think is that he wishes his sister and the child she carries be provided for, if they both should survive the birth when it comes. So that if he might find a husband for her after, there is no hardship from the existence of the child. That Blanche doesn't even expect that much, he doesn't mention, still wondering at her lack of complaint or bitterness, or even guilt over that night._

 _He's sent away without a real answer, though the bishop assures him that he'll do what he thinks best. God forgive him and his father alike, if this does nothing for Blanche save expose her to more shame than she already might bear for all that's happened._

~ ~~ ~

Henry frowns at his uncle, not remembering having done anything with Blanche, though if it were in July, it might be that the wound that had left a scar on his face might also have left some small scar on his mind. Certainly he doesn't discount that he might well have done so, but most of the days around the time he received the wound are hazed with pain, where he recalls much at all. More so those after than those before, but even those are fainter than they ought to be.

There's little censure from his uncle, either, more concern that he find the truth of the matter, and make what choices he will about the child that it's claimed the girl carries - to acknowledge it or not, if she's inclined to make her thoughts on the father known. He has little doubts that the child is his own, with what he knows of her father and her responsibilities for the household. The only surprise from all of this is to know she does have a brother who might look after her, at least if the claim of the man who came to his uncle is true.

He has little time over the winter to do more than he already does, recovering from the summer's campaign and preparing for the next year on the Welsh marches. For once, he avoids Church Stretton and the home of Sir Robert, not wishing to take his entourage there if Blanche is indeed carrying his child. Or perhaps not wishing to know if she might have died in the birth of it.

Only once the winter is coming, and his soldiers are returning with their commanders to their homes so they might pass the colder months does he bother to go to the manor house he recalls. With only Scroop at his side for this, as the man always is now, and a couple men-at-arms to ensure their safety, and those he leaves with the horses when he knocks at the door of the house, and is allowed in by a servant who frowns at the sight of him.

The hall is warmed by a fire blazing on the hearth, and Blanche is standing at the end of the table, directing the others in preparing the hall, likely to feast her neighbors for the vigil of Saint Crispin. She looks over when one of the servants tugs at her sleeve, her eyes widening at the sight of him, or perhaps at the sight of the scar on his face, though she drops her gaze to the floor after a moment. What rumors had reached here of July the year before that she had some small wonder on her face at seeing him, he's uncertain.

"Your Highness," she murmurs when he approaches, and he reaches out to tilt her chin up. Encouraging her to meet his gaze as he tries to drag memories of July the year before to the forefront of his mind. The night before he met his father in Shrewsbury, when he took advantage of the location of Sir Robert's home to give his men a chance to rest before the battle that followed. "I must apologize that my father cannot be good host, but he is ill in bed and cannot be moved from it."

He can hear more worry than he remembers from similar excuses, and wonders if this time it's not the illness of the mind that she has told him has always been a part of Sir Robert in her memory. But that's not what has kept him away all summer, nor drawn him back now. "A man who claimed to be your brother brought word to my uncle you carried a child." He keeps his voice low so it might not carry to the servants still working to prepare the hall.

"A brother I still cannot recall from my childhood, nor that my father recalls when he is absent from here." Blanche meets his gaze with a calm that's new since last he's seen her. "Nor that I asked to do such for me, as I ask nothing of you, Your Highness, though you may provide as you will." She turns away, leading him around the table to a cradle near the hearth that is hidden from the door. Lifting a sleeping infant from it, and turning so he might see the child.

Wisps of hair that's almost golden in the firelight grace the child's head, and its face is flushed in the warmth of the hall so close to the fire. He can see something of himself in the face, and that only makes the certainty that this is his child greater. Touching the child's head lightly, he allows a bit of a smile to cross his face. "What name?"

"Robert, for my father. He was glad to have such a namesake, and after, sat closeted with the priest and a scholar, though he would not tell me for what purpose." Blanche returns the boy to his cradle after a moment, watching Henry as she does so. "If you wish, I'll see if he might be well enough he can receive a guest."

Henry nods, remaining in the hall until Blanche returns to lead him to her father's room, and leaves him to speak with Sir Robert alone. Trusting him more than he thinks she had before, though it's clear the man on the bed is not ill in the same manner as before. His gaze is too clear, and he greets Henry with knowledge of who he is, and an apology for not rising as he ought.

"For once, the claim I am abed is true rather than cover for what I cannot control." Sir Robert gestures to the chair drawn close to the far side of a table holding a meal that looks recently brought. "Join me, if you will, Your Highness."

The conversation naturally gravitates toward Blanche and the infant Robert in his cradle downstairs, to which Henry can only give his word he will claim the boy as his own. Eventually Sir Robert also ensures a promise that when his illness kills him, as he's sure it will, that Henry will see to the provision of Blanche and her son, however he might. It will not change that Sir Robert's son James is the natural guardian of his sister when their father dies, but that Henry will do what he can for Blanche is enough to comfort the knight.

He does not stay that night, though Sir Robert invites him to do so, riding on instead as far as he might before taking lodging elsewhere. The winter is passed in London, and a letter comes to him through Thomas, a priest who had tended to Sir Robert in his last days, to tell him of Sir Robert's death, and of what provision the knight has left for Blanche and for Henry's son.

When he passes through in the summer that follows, it appears to have done little to change the household, save that Blanche now must contend with her brother's absence rather than her father's illness. She says only that he has land leased him in Warwick to which he must attend, and a family there who are of more concern. When pressed, she adds that he has tried to have her come to his home, but she will not leave her son's inheritance to be neglected for some brother she barely knows.

It is a worry on the Welsh marches that she does so, and there is the temptation to insist she does as her brother has commanded her. Save he thinks she would only tell him what he wishes to hear, and do as she thinks she must once he has left again.

At the end of the summer, he once more visits the house outside Church Stretton, watching his son follow on Blanche's heels everywhere she goes, clinging to the skirt of her kirtle. The boy grows sturdy and healthy, babbling constantly when someone might take the time to listen to him, though he doesn't always speak in ways that others might comprehend as yet. Henry leaves before the evening meal, preferring to be on his way before he might think to invite Blanche to his bed should he stay the night.

~ ~~ ~

Blanche is glad for the visits from Henry, though she has some worries for what his entourage might say about the son who only ceases to follow her when Henry is there for him to watch and follow as well. That he will listen to her son babble and give her some small bit of time to her own thoughts is a kindness that she appreciates, though he comes only three times in the year and a half following her son's birth.

Though it's not his familiar horse that stands outside her home upon her return from the market in late autumn following her father's death, and she clutches her basket tightly as she hurries her steps, gathering the skirts of her kirtle in one hand that she might move faster. Fear driving her to the door, nearly colliding with an unfamiliar man who is just inside the door.

"Careful now, miss."

The man reaches out to steady her, and Blanche slaps his hand away before she pushes past him into the hall. Her brother is at the table, with a meal in front of him, and her son is standing on one of the chairs, watching his uncle with a ferocious frown on his little face.

"What brings my brother back to my home when he cannot be bothered to be seen here in the twenty years and more since he left?" She crosses the room, setting her basket at the end of the table furthest from her brother before scooping up her son to rest him on her hip.

James looks up from his food, meeting her gaze without any offense in his expression. "I'm doing what I should have done in the spring, and removing you to Warwick. You'll be safer there, as will my nephew."

"You've cared little enough before, and I've worries beyond simply myself and my son. What of the servants, the house, the lands? I've a responsibility to them for the sake of my son. His inheritance should not fall into neglect because you might feel it ought be yours." She's trembling with a mix of fear and anger, though the latter more for her son's sake than her own, and almost surprised she's willing to speak to her brother as she is when he holds her life in his hands.

"If father had not made provisions otherwise, it would be. As it is, I am still your guardian and my nephew's guardian, and I can't in good conscience leave you here alone." James pushes to his feet, though he remains at the far end of the table. "You will come to Warwick with my nephew, without complaint, and you will reside within my household until I can find a suitable husband for you."

"You still have not answered to the concerns for the house and lands, and the servants who rely on them and us to provide for them." Blanche takes a step backward toward the kitchen, clutching her son to her. Even the worries of Welsh raids don't put as much fear into her heart as the simple command of her brother, one that might be taken as a worry for a sister who has no other relative to help her. Save she does not trust his worry for her when he's been absent these long years, and should not have been.

"I've arranged to retain a man to see to the care of all. You do not need to worry so for it." And thus neatly ensured she has nothing to keep her from obeying his command save her own fears.

"Then I shall do as I must, though I like it not." Blanche drops her gaze from his, retreating to the kitchen for now, abandoning the basket with the market goods she brought home. She might have to leave her home, but she would not leave without ensuring that when Henry arrives in the spring, as she expects he'll do, he does not think they've fallen prey to some Welsh raid.

~ ~~ ~

"Your Highness." The man who is in the hall of the house is an unfamiliar one to Henry, and looks startled to see him here. Perhaps a husband this brother of hers found Blanche, but the absence of his son makes him wonder if the child survived the winter. "My master, Sir James didn't see fit to inform me you would be visiting. I've nothing ready for you..."

"You may not, but that doesn't mean there's naught ready for His Highness." One of the servants is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a dark frown on her face for the man in the hall that fades into something only slightly less suspicious as she looks over at Henry. "If Your Highness please to wait, Mistress Blanche bid me make sure you've a meal when you arrived this spring, as she'd be unable to do so from Warwick. It be plain fare and perhaps not too plentiful, but I'll provide what I can for Your Highness."

"Thank you, good mistress, it is kindly done of you." Henry smiles at her, both for the offer of a meal and the news of Blanche. If his son is still in good health, he'll be where his mother is.

When the summer is gone, he travels to Warwick, making inquiries until he finds the modest home of Sir James Stretton, knight in service to the Earl of Warwick, who Henry knows well enough. The knight in question is not present, still with the Earl who will be returning from his own efforts to assist Henry in Wales soon enough, though his wife is gracious enough to invite them stay for a meal.

"It would be most kind of you, Lady Stretton. Although I would inquire where is the boy whom your husband brought here with his mother in the autumn of last year?" Henry watches her blink and draw back a little before she answers, a gracious smile once more on her face.

"He ought be with his mother and my own son in the garden, as she is gathering in the last of the herbs for the still room. I will have them brought in, if Your Highness wish it." She suits actions to words before he has time to complete his reply, sending the girl who's brought out trenchers to fetch Blanche and the boys.

His son looks healthy enough as he follows Blanche into the room, still clinging to her skirt as he looks around at the unfamiliar faces that have accompanied Henry, a group intentionally brought instead of sent on to London as he had the last time he saw his son. Only Scroop and himself should be familiar to the boy, and he can see the smile that breaks across Robert's face when he spots Henry.

They remain for dinner, and sleep in the hall for the night, that they not displace any of the family. It's early the next morning when Henry is woken not by the simple sounds of a day beginning, but a gentle hand on his shoulder, and an urgent whisper.

"I still would ask nothing for myself, Your Highness, but for my son." Blanche meets his gaze with an ease she had not shown earlier. "Here he is little to any but to me and to my brother, and to that one I fear he is merely some pawn in a game I cannot see as yet, if ever I might. For he is a stranger to me, no matter that he is my brother."

She holds her son in her arms, the boy still sleepy and confused as to why he has been woken up as early as he has. And when he leaves, it is with his son on front of him on his horse, and the confused questions of his hostess following him as he leaves. He had offered to take Blanche with him as well, but she had merely smiled and said she would not risk the temptation to them both.


	2. With Good Acceptance of His Majesty

_This time when he approaches the bishop, he is not given audience as he had hoped, but instead brought into the presence of a man who is at least several years younger than he, though from the deference given him, someone of importance. It takes little to conclude this is Prince Henry that he'd taken his sister from her home to avoid his visits._

 _When he asks after his nephew, Henry only tells him that he's seen to the guardianship of his son himself, and that he has no cause to ask after the boy. If Blanche wishes to do so, she may come and ask herself, rather than James coming in her stead. There is nothing else the prince will offer, and he leaves with nothing more than he arrived with._

 _On his return to Warwick, his sister's easy acceptance of this news surprises him, when she's been so fiercely devoted to the son that is evidence of the weakness of a moment. Until his wife reminds him that Blanche has not shown any concern over the taking of her son since the day the prince rode away with the boy. It makes him wonder what part Blanche had in the boy's removal from his care._

 _Almost a year passes, and when he returns in the company of his lord in the autumn, it's to find his sister missing, with none present who know where she has gone, only that she left two months past to go up to the castle in reply to summons sent down by the countess. His liege will give him no answer, and he wonders if the earl even knows what his countess has done._

 _And a third visit to the bishop only yields the knowledge that his sister is safe in the care of those Prince Henry trusts also with his son, as so to allow the mother to once more have a hand in the raising of the boy. He may, as is his right, continue to see to the administration of his nephew's inheritance until the boy comes of age, but the boy and his mother will remain where they are._

 _His thoughts are morose as he returns to his home, thinking only that he may well have made things worse in his meddling. A matter which, even should God forgive him, he will have a hard time forgiving himself for. His sister deserves better, and he can only hope that he will have the chance to see her again._

~ ~~ ~

Blanche wakes as she always does, with the pale grey light of dawn filtering through the windows, though the room that greets her is still unfamiliar for all that she's been here nearly a month. When she goes to stir the fire on the hearth, an arm tightens around her waist, reminding her that she isn't alone in her bed. That Henry had come to her after dining with her hosts - his uncle and aunt, she's learned - and while he'd said it was only to speak with her, she had been little surprised when it became more.

It surprises her more that she feels little shame or regret for once more succumbing to the temptation that Henry provides her. Only a growing concern for what hosts might think of this, and if they might turn out her son as well as perhaps herself for her weakness. She does not care to return her son to her brother's care, and she does not wish to cause more difficulty for Henry on that matter than she already has.

Shifting again, Blanche squirms from under Henry's arm, pulling on her chemise before she pads to the hearth, stirring the fire to life, and adding some of the wood that waits nearby for just such a purpose. Going then to dress in kirtle and gown, aware that Henry's watching her as she does so, awakened by her leaving the bed, no doubt.

She hurries from the room once she is dressed, first to see to her son, and then to do what she will for the day in garden and still room, where she might ignore that Henry is still present. To discuss some matter or another with his uncle, perhaps; she doesn't have any care to know, save that he remains through the evening once more, and will remain the night at least before traveling on once more.

The door shuts quietly behind him when he comes to her room later, his tread nearly silent on the floor as he comes over to where she sits curled on a chair near the hearth. His hands are warm on her shoulders, through layers of linen and wool, familiar temptation that makes her blood heat in response. Blanche keeps her gaze on the fire burning low on the hearth, trying to focus on keeping herself from giving in once more, though she expects that's an impossible task.

"Would you have me leave?" His voice is quiet, the question lighter than she feels it ought be, and Blanche chews on her lip a moment. Thinking what is safest to answer, more than what she truly wishes, because that would be a foolish thing to admit.

"I would have you stay or leave as you chose, Your Highness." Blanche doesn't look away from the fire as she speaks. "So long as we remain chaste as we might in the company of others, it matters little that you are here, save what your uncle whom you have charged with the care of my son, and now of me, might think of your presence in my bedchamber."

"My uncle's opinion doesn't matter as much here and now as your own." Henry rubs his thumb against her neck, sending a shiver down her spine to pool heat in her belly. Temptation offered and accepted without a word, though she knows she ought not.

Leaning into his touch, Blanche turns her head to look up at Henry. Studying the familiar features, the scar that he took at Shrewsbury after that first night they lay together. She doesn't dare to think that she might have more than affection for him, or that he has ought but a fondness for her as mother to his son. For all that he might protest to the contrary if that thought were spoken.

Thought is something soon abandoned, the night remembered in sensation and pleasure that ends drowsing in her bed with Henry's arm wrapped possessive and snug around her waist once more. As if defying the world to tell him he couldn't have what he wanted on his terms, a thought that makes Blanche smile to herself as she drifts toward sleep.

~ ~~ ~

Henry woke to the sensation of someone watching him, opening his eyes to meet the gaze of his son over Blanche's shoulder. The boy is peering over the edge of the bed, watching him with curious eyes. He hauls himself up a moment later, though the bed is barely wide enough to allow him to sit on the edge, still watching Henry.

"Why are you in here?"

Robert's whispering, probably trying not to wake his mother, but Blanche stirs regardless, shifting under Henry's arm. He tightens his grip so she doesn't move too far and further limit the room for their son to perch.

"Because I slept in here." It's an obvious answer, but Henry provides it anyway, smiling a moment at Robert.

"Uncle says you have your own bed to sleep in." Robert tilts his head, his expression still curious. Wondering, likely, what his uncle means. "Why did you sleep here?"

"Because I wanted to." Because Henry knows Blanche wouldn't come to him, and he's enjoying the chance to once more explore her body and her pleasure as he had before. Though from the innocently repeated words, he expects his uncle is none too happy that he's done so in that worthy's home. Perhaps particularly since Henry's put Blanche in his care as much as he'd done the same with his son nearly a year before.

Robert watches him a moment longer before sliding off the bed, going toward the fire, and climbing into the chair Blanche had been sitting in the night before. Kicking his feet as he waits, and following Henry when he leaves the room. A constant shadow while he breaks his fast, conversation over the table with Thomas strained slightly because of Henry's choice of actions.

It is a conversation that doesn't end with his return to London and to his father's side, though it's conducted now in letters rather than in person. One that grows more heated as the season progresses, and news comes from his uncle that Blanche is once more carries a child. Another son, perhaps, or a daughter, it matters little which it is, only that it becomes harder to hide that he might have some fondness for her. If one that remains unspoken and unacknowledged for the most part.

The birth in June of a daughter is overlooked when he is recalled to London when his father is ill, another of the same illness which has struck twice before. The physician can only say that his father will recover as before, but for now, Henry must focus on the politics of his position rather than his campaigns in Wales. He draws his uncles closer, seeking their advice on this and that, along with that of his favorites, though he doesn't always heed what advice they provide him.

Blanche is brought to Farnham with her son and daughter when his uncle Thomas comes to London, left safe in the care of his uncle the bishop there. From whom he receives an admonishment that if would continue as he is with Blanche, he ought marry her and provide her with the safety of that status. A thought that remains in the back of his mind until a conversation with his father leads to the mention of the children, and a demand that the king be given a chance to meet these two.

Of their mother is made no mention, though Henry will not part them from her without her express wish, and so he sends word that she shall come with her children from Farnham to London. An easier journey than the one she made three months past at the end of summer, even with an infant to keep from the chill of the oncoming winter.

She is escorted first to his chambers, still wrapped in her cloak, with Robert trotting at her side. He'll take her and the children to his father himself, and says as much to the men who brought her to him, dismissing them from his presence.

"Is that why I have been brought to London?" Blanche looks almost frightened as she removes Robert's cloak to hang it by the hearth to dry. "I was not told why, only that you had sent for me to come, Your Highness."

"My father wants to meet my son." Henry helps her to remove her own cloak, garnering a brief smile of thanks, before he finally first sees his daughter. Dark eyes stare back at him, a faintly startled expression on the infant's face as she regards him for a long moment before looking back at her mother. "And my daughter as well. So he shall have to meet their mother, as well, for it would be ill to part them from you even for so short a time as this might be, I think."

Blanche smiles when he meets her gaze once more, her cheeks pink in a familiar blush that had been all but absent the last time he saw her. "A kindness for which I thank you," she murmurs, shifting her daughter to rest the infant against her shoulder, where she keeps her as he leads them through chill halls to where his father waits to meet the children.

A meeting at which his son demonstrates a boldness that he's shown since he began to toddle, meeting the king's gaze with a child's bravery, and telling him that he was that worthy's grandson. As though it might not be certain in the mind of the man who sits in a grand chair at the hearth, and the surety of a small boy might settle the matter. Staring at him with a determined expression and small head held high.

Chuckling, Henry's father smiles. "You certainly have the same determination the world will shape itself to you that my son has." He studies Robert for a long moment, though what he's searching for, Henry isn't entirely sure. "And much of him in your features."

"Because he's my father." Robert crosses his arms, all but glaring at the king. Willing him, perhaps, to believe what he's saying.

"As he has told me." Leaning back in his chair, the king looks from the boy to Blanche, though she doesn't meet his gaze long before looking down at the floor. "This would be your mother than, child?"

Robert nods. "My mother and she has my sister with her. My sister's name is Margaret, like Uncle Thomas's wife, and my grandmother. And my name is Robert, for my other grandfather."

Beckoning Blanche over, Henry's father looks over the tiny girl as well, Margaret looking back at him with a solemn expression on her face. As if less certain than her brother what to do with this stranger in front of her, though it's little surprise in so small a child. She cranes her head to look back at her mother a moment before looking at the king again. Until Blanche is waved away, and her daughter with her. Less concern for a girl child than for the boy who still watches the king with a stubborn expression.

The rest of the evening is uneventful, though Henry thinks his father and his son reach some sort of equilibrium. Certainly there's a command that the boy ought to be brought back again, as he thinks well of the child. There is further conversation once Blanche has been settled into a room for the night with the children, with the same thought brought up as had been suggested by his uncle, though it's now Henry who voices it.

That Blanche isn't of royal blood matters little to him, only that she is fair and English and that she has proven she bears children well. And if there is question of a royal marriage to secure any alliance or treaty, Robert is certainly more of an age with the marriageable French princess, at least, and that would be the principal kingdom with whom securing a treaty would be of concern. That he has some fondness for Blanche as well goes unsaid and unthought, as it's not an argument to be made.

Blanche returns to Farnham in the morning, to continue to reside in the custody of his uncle, to pass the winter there while Henry argues with his father. Though it's his step-mother who proves able to talk the king around in the end; to convince him that to give his consent to this marriage between Henry and his mistress is the best course to take. Perhaps the recurrence of illness he suffers in January also serves to push his mind in that direction, but Henry cannot be certain of that.

~ ~~ ~

"Why?" Blanche stares at Henry, all too aware she's in her oldest kirtle and smock, with dirt clinging to her hands from tending to the corner of the garden the bishop has granted her. She's never imagined that Henry might do more than provide some small income for the care of her and her children. That he's asked her if she would consent to marry him is a surprise, though perhaps more of one than it ought be. "Not that I would not, for I find it difficult to refuse you anything, even what I ought. Only that I do not understand why you would make such an offer to me, who has nothing of royalty in her blood, and little enough of nobility, if any there be."

"Your blood matters nothing more to me now than it did before." Henry paces from where he'd been waiting for her near the hearth, across the floor to the window that overlooks the garden she tends. "I am fond of you, that much I can say, though if I love you, I do not know, as I do not believe I have loved before, save that which a child gives to those who are closest to them. That you are fair of face; that you are strong and loyal, features I would greatly want in a wife, that too I can say. Two children you've borne me; a promise I made to your father before he died."

He turns from the window to meet her gaze, his expression oddly open, almost vulnerable. "All of these are good reasons to make you my wife, if you would have me to husband. I cannot promise to remain close, any more than I have since when I first came to your father's home. Nor can I promise I shall be more than fond of you, or give you more than children for your trouble, for I cannot know what the future will hold. All I might promise you is that you would have a loyal husband, and all of England would be yours."

Washing her hands in the basin on a small table that is there to do so, Blanche keeps her attention on them for a long moment. Trying to think past the astonishment and the desire to merely accede to what has been asked of her, to think what she might truly wish. Certainly she can return that fondness Henry's mentioned, and that he promises her little doesn't matter much to her. She'd been happy with the home her father had provided, though she'd wished for a husband and children.

And he's offered her that - and promised her his loyalty in the bargain, which she has no doubt is a promise he will keep. There is little reason for her not to follow the wishes of her heart and give him the answer he waits for. Only that this feels sudden and she doesn't know what has driven his thoughts to this conclusion.

"Though I would say I freely give my consent, I am not entirely at liberty to answer for myself. For all that you have seen me safely delivered into the care of your uncle, still my brother would be my natural guardian, and must be asked as well to give his permission for me to wed." Blanche turns to Henry, drying her hands on a towel. "If he should allow it, then yes, I will consent to be your wife."

To be his wife, and to shoulder what responsibilities come with that office, as she's sure there is more to it than merely what she had learned as a girl to run a household the size of her father's. What that might mean is a question that she quietly asks of his step-mother when he leaves her in the queen's company later that week, no little bewildered by the changes that have been wrought on her life.

From there it's a whirlwind, with new gowns, and paying close attention to the instructions of the women who will be her relatives all too soon. Only seeing her daughter because the infant fusses when she's out of sight, and seeing her son but rarely. Though he, she knows, has taken to following his father around once more, Henry's constant shadow. She worries more than a little what it will mean as he grows, if he continues to follow in his father's footsteps at every chance he is given. If she might lose him at a young age because he follows when he should stay home.

In March, her brother arrives in London, to give his blessing in person, and to ask her to forgive him all he has neglected to do for her. That she tells him there is nothing she thinks ought need be forgiven, so long as he has not neglected the home which she grew up in, seems to surprise him, as does the quiet invitation to stay. At least until the wedding, which is little more than two months from his arrival, and for all that she doesn't know him well, he is still her brother and all the family she has left save her own children.

~ ~~ ~

 _That he is asked to give his permission for his sister to marry the Prince is unexpected, and it's a long month before he takes it on himself to travel to London. Leaving his wife to care for the house as he does so often, so he might grant his permission to his sister himself, though he has little doubt she will do as she wishes, if he will or no. That fiercely possessive child grown into a quietly determined woman, doing all she might to hold onto what she has. Protecting their father when he abandoned them both, and finding herself a husband she can hold onto, though some part of that latter may simply be the hand of God in directing her meeting of Prince Henry._

 _Her invitation to stay is a surprise, but one he accepts gladly, seeing a chance for penance for his mistakes, even if only in some small fashion. Though he has little chance to see his sister, busy as she is preparing for the wedding, a ceremony that for all that it is subdued in splendor, is something more complex than he recalls his own wedding to be. That it includes her becoming Princess of Wales is perhaps no small part of that complexity._

 _And though he returns to Warwick and his family after, it is not without the promise that he shall do what he might for his sister yet, for all that he has given over her care to Prince Henry. For she's still his sister, and there's still some remnant of the girl he left behind as a child._

~ ~~ ~

Though she's had to learn new manners and to accept that there are matters she is expected to leave to the servants, being a princess seems little different to Blanche than she remembers running her father's household to be. Though the estates that are Henry's are run by stewards, and he has ultimate authority over what might be done, he encourages her interest in the running of them. After all, as Henry reminds her with quiet murmurs as they rest in his bed of a night, they are the makers of custom, and what changes they bring the world shall learn to accommodate.

And so she keeps herself busy with tasks much like those she tended to before her father's death, with Henry promising to accompany her if she should wish to see the estates that he controls. She thinks perhaps the following summer, as he is concerned more now with establishing himself in his father's council and government, and she has enough with learning all she will here to keep her busy.

As summer wears into autumn, it becomes clear she is once more with child, keeping her ever close to the palace at Westminster, tending to gardens as she wishes, and to her children and learning what she might that she had not before. Watching her Henry, as he draws his father's government to him and leaves the ailing king with little true power come midwinter.

Her second son is born as the year turns, amidst women who've only recently become more than strangers, screaming his outrage at being expelled into the world with a comforting vigor. A son who shall be as healthy as his brother, she hopes, and perhaps a little more inclined to study than to imitating his father in every warlike aspect as Robert is.

She sleeps, and Henry is there when she wakes, crouched next to the cradle holding his sleeping son. His expression is difficult to make out in the shadows that shroud the corner of the room, but Blanche watches him watch their son for a time, until Henry looks up to meet her gaze.

"A son, my lord." Her voice is quiet, as she's still tired, but it's loud enough for him to hear even in the corner where the cradle rests. "What shall he be named?"

Henry reaches out a hand to gently touch the infant's face with a fingertip, looking back down at the boy for a long moment. "Edward, for my great-grandfather, I think." A smile is just visible, amusement at some unspoken thought as he takes his hand away again. "My uncle would baptize our son himself, as soon as all is ready." He looks up at Blanche again. "His godparents are waiting, as well."

Blanche nods, a smile crossing her face once more. "Than go, and see him baptized." She draws the blankets a little closer as she watches Henry pick up their son, hoping only that it isn't too cold for the infant. She sleeps again, and this time she wakes to the wail of her son, no doubt hungry, though she barely has had time to push herself upright before Maud is there with little Edward.

"Your own dinner is waiting as well, mistress, once you've seen to your son." The older woman's settled in well, running Blanche's small household, though it's her granddaughter who's Blanche's usual maid servant. "He had a fine opinion for the bishop when he was baptized," she adds with a chuckle as she goes to bring the tray with Blanche's dinner over. "A strong boy, that one, and like to be another to follow after His Highness, no doubt."

Settling Edward at her breast, Blanche smiles at the thought of her son's reaction to his baptism. "So long as he lives, I shall be content whether he is warrior or scholar or priest." She strokes his downy hair, watching him for a long moment before she turns her attention to her own meal, eating one-handed so she might keep her son supported.

"He's a strong boy, and God willing, he'll live to make much of what's been granted him." Maud moves about the room, doing what needs done to keep it warm and safe for Blanche and her youngest. Adding another log to the fire, and looking over at Blanche again. "He'll live, m'lady. You've two fine strong children already, and this son is no less a hearty one than they were."

"I know." Blanche leans back against the pillows a bit more. "They've not been a trouble this last day, have they?"

"Not a trouble, though young Margaret's been wanting to come to you since His Highness came to fetch your littlest for baptizing." Maud comes over to move the tray when Blanche is done with it. "Your oldest has been a fine boy, keeping his sister company so she doesn't make too much of your absence. Though he tends to forget, I think, that she is a girl, for all that he's careful not to hurt her. She's not as careful of him, yet he's not complained the once for all she's left him a few bruises. A good lad, he is."

Blanch smiles, a soft chuckle escaping her. She'll have to remember to seek a playmate for Margaret, so she'll have another girl to keep her company, rather than just her brother. A matter she later asks for help with, busy as she is simply trying to keep up with her children as raw weather of early spring gives way to milder weather. Even with nurses to help with Robert and Margaret, she still prefers to care for them herself as best she can around her youngest. It's a relief that Edward is soon asleep through the night, rather than waking her at all hours as his brother and sister did for far longer.

Still, the days when Henry ignores matters of state for the sake of spending them with his older children are precious, giving her the time to tend to her garden and the still room. A nurse always accompanies her to help with Edward, to keep him from trouble or fretting, and it gives her that bit more freedom, for all that she enjoys the care of her children. Some days she even follows along in the wake of the rest of her family, Edward balanced on her hip as she watches Henry teaching Robert to ride, or spinning Margaret as the little girl giggles with delight.

~ ~~ ~

Henry smiles to himself as he takes Margaret from Robert, settling the two-year-old in front of him as she chortles with glee. She's been watching him teach Robert how to ride a horse with a pout on her face for the last few months, and while he's not willing to let her sit on the horse alone, he's willing to indulge her desire to learn. He folds his hands over hers as he gives her the reins, glad for the patient nature of the particular horse he's on at the moment.

It's a few moments more before Robert is settled on his own pony, controlling it well enough to keep it alongside Henry's horse as they ride through the grounds of the palace. Henry shows Margaret how to steer the horse, though he doesn't let her have the reins entirely to herself; she's still too young to truly control even her own pony such as Robert has, much less the horse he's on. Still, it makes her smile, and wrap her arms around his neck when they return to the stable.

His uncle is waiting there for him, and Henry raises an eyebrow at him, handing Margaret down before he swings down himself. "Pressing news, uncle?"

"None of which I am aware." Thomas settles Margaret on his shoulder, a delighted expression coming to the girl's face at the chance. "Though my brother is in London, and would like to speak with you, when you might see him."

Henry keeps half an eye on Robert as his son climbs down from his pony, nodding to his uncle. "I shall send word to him that I will." And take the children back to Blanche for the rest of the day, as the conversation is one he would not have them overhear. Too many questions asked when some of what he's been talking to his uncles about is more idle speculation than thought of action. "And you shall remain too, uncle, as I would speak with you as well."

Margaret pouts when Henry takes her and Robert back to Blanche, rather than continuing to entertain them himself, but she's soon enough chasing her brother across the garden Blanche is tending. Much to the exasperation of their nurses, Henry's certain, but he smiles indulgently a moment before turning away, his smile fading as he mulls over the potential conversation with his uncles.

If indeed it is the same as one they've had before, they'll merely chase thoughts around like mice trapped in a barrel seeking an outlet. One first brought up January two years past now, when he'd been merely a large part of political life in his father's court, rather than the true power behind the throne as he is now, for the most part. His father's steadily recovered from that fit, though, and Henry's reluctant to bring up the matter of abdication to him when he's well enough to take interest in what Henry's doing with the ruling of the country.

Shaking his head, Henry summons a page to go to his uncle the bishop, and convey him to Henry's apartments. He'll talk to his uncles there, and remind them of the reasons he's not yet ready to force such a step on his father. No matter that it might better reflect the true balance of power for Henry to be king now, rather than his father, such an action would taint his claim to the crown. He'll not risk that, and the constant rebellion that it would bring with it.

His uncles soon arrive, the page dismissed after he's brought wine, and some bread and some of the last apples stored through the winter. Silence reigning only a short few moments until they're all certain there is no one to overhear the conversation, for all that they have and will do nothing but talk.

"He is not well, and the physician cannot be certain he will not have another of those same fits as he's had before." Thomas pushes himself from his seat, preferring to stand near the hearth, goblet abandoned and forgotten on the table. "An ailing king does little good for the stability of a kingdom."

"Of that I am aware, uncle." Henry sips at his own wine, watching his uncles. "Still, I would not suggest such an action to my father, nor wish it to happen save that he think it a proper thing without another to plant the idea in his mind."

"Your Highness has done well in keeping the kingdom from trouble despite His Majesty's illness." The bishop takes up the thread of conversation instead of Thomas, shrugging one shoulder when Henry lifts an eyebrow at him. "It is merely a thought that it would do well for the people to see a king who is capable of keeping a firm hand on the reins of his court and nobles."

"One which you have suggested more than once, and I have told you my answer." Henry scowls a moment. "Perhaps you might have arguments you have yet to give, or have newly thought of, rather than circling the same thoughts again? For my answer to such is unchanged."

"Then the conversation need not go further." The bishop shrugs again, taking a sip of wine, and looking over at Thomas. "Come, Thomas, sit back down. There are, no doubt, other matters which ought to be tended to. Perhaps the matter with France."

That is a conversation that is far more comfortable, and the rest of the afternoon is less fraught with the tension of the first moments. Discussions of what impressions the ambassadors lately to France have returned, and how best to handle the situation between Burgundians and Armagnacs. If to stand aside, or provide their support to one or another.

In the end, it is thought best to wait, and see what the two parties might do, and perhaps draw from them both bribes to remain neutral - or, perhaps, to support one over the other.

Still, the earliest part of the conversation weighs on his mind through the rest of a summer spent between his children and the rule of England in all but name. His father improves, to be certain, but there is always the fear that he will be struck down by another fit, despite the careful care of his physicians. It is enough a fear to drive his thoughts to what might be best for England, both now and when he is duly made king when his father dies.

Word reaches him in the winter that Burgundy and Armagnac have signed a treaty, though Henry suspects it will not last. He sends ambassadors to the courts of France and Burgundy in the spring, and to the Count of Armagnac, to assess the factions and political situation as much as to make it clear he's willing to offer assistance if provided sufficient incentive. Or even to remain neutral, should that be the expressed desire that comes with what offer either faction is willing to offer. Playing them off against each other to enrich the coffers of England, to good effect.

~ ~~ ~

 _When he hears of an expedition to France, he asks leave of Warwick to join those who will follow the Earl of Arundel and Bishop of St. David's to Burgundy's aid. Perhaps in so doing, he might earn some honor and some good will in the eyes of Prince Henry. If his valor is noted by the prince at all, among the others who have likewise joined this expedition._

 _Though there is little enough of valor to be won, a march on Paris and fighting against Bretons which seems to do nothing to truly change the balance of power, at least that he can see. Something of the matter, though, is of note, he thinks, as the earl and the bishop spend much time closeted on the return to England, and depart immediately for London upon landing, though evening is falling, and it is unlikely they might reach London before night closes in._

~ ~~ ~

"Take time to tend to your wife and your children instead of my government." At least the argument isn't taking place in front of the rest of the council, though Henry is still stung by his father's dismissal. Particularly after the public thanks for all he's done to keep his father's rule from collapsing along with his health. Health which is precarious, for all that he's regained strength. "And I would not have you speaking so closely with certain members of my council behind closed doors, away from my sight."

"You've not always been well enough to participate, and your physician has scolded all about you for providing too much excitement, which would risk Your Majesty's health." Henry meets his father's gaze with ease. "Nor were some of those conversations fit to bring up with Your Majesty when they were naught but idle thought firmly diverted before they could become more."

"Your uncles' wish for me to set aside my crown for you." His father gave him a sharp smile that faded quickly. "I know you would not ask that of me, though there are others who would think you agree with your uncles more than you do. Still, there were matters which you should have discussed with me before you acted in my name."

Henry's almost certain his father is referring to the expedition that returned just three weeks before, from the successful aiding of Burgundy in his march on Paris. Aid his father no doubt hadn't wished to lend, and an argument he'd avoided beforehand simply by doing what he thought was best for England.

"I gave aid as I thought was right, to one who would prove a better ally in France than the other. Or would you have me abandon the claim you may make on the crown of France?" And with it, his own claim to it, something he has no intention of doing.

"You did so without my permission, a permission which I would not have granted to such an expedition." The king frowns at Henry, his expression darkening with annoyance. "For all that you thought it best, you are still not king, and still must abide by my wishes. And thus, tend to your family and leave me tend to my kingdom."

It takes an effort to keep from retorting, and Henry bows stiffly before leaving the room, Scroop falling in beside him once he's in the hallway. Waiting for him, as he'd been instructed, watching Henry for a long moment before he speaks. "What did His Majesty say, if I might ask, Your Highness?"

"You may ask, but it is not a discussion for here." Henry doesn't intend to make his father's admonishments to him any more public than his father clearly intended, though the one shall be known soon enough when he doesn't attend upon his father's council as he has for these last several years.

"As Your Highness wishes it." Scroop remains silent as he follows Henry through the palace back to the apartments that belong to Henry and Blanche. Making no suggestions nor asking further questions until Henry's had a chance to vent his frustration in words and pacing, merely listening.

"I do not know that I would even remain in London, if my father wishes me to keep from his affairs, for to stay is to be tempted to take interest once more. Which shall do naught but cause frustration." Henry reaches for a goblet of wine, taking a long sip. "Perhaps it might be best to take Blanche and my children to see other residences of which I have the use."

"Your Highness would do well to make such a journey, though your progress no doubt shall be hampered by the coming winter."

A simple agreement, Henry thinks, to placate an angry prince. One that does well to soothe his ruffled feathers, and he chuckles, setting his goblet down once more. "I should, though, perhaps ask Blanche if she is inclined to such, and if our youngest might be suited to a trip with winter coming on."

In the end, though, they leave Edward in the care of his nurses and under the guardianship of Henry's step-mother, as not to risk his health with the winter weather. Henry nearly thinks to leave Margaret behind as well, with that thought, save he doesn't care to think what she will do in long months left without either of her parents to watch over her. Or how she might sulk when they do return.

The journey is slow, traveling first to Clarendon, where Henry takes Robert out on the boy's first hunt, though the hunting is not ideal in the winter months. A few days there, in close company with family and Scroop, and a handful of servants, is enough to ease some part of his frustration with being forced to leave his father's council.

From there, to Monmouth, where he leaves his children to the care of the rest of the party, taking the time to focus on Blanche instead. Joining the others for dinner, and sometimes an evening of entertainment, but more often retreating to the rooms he's sharing with his wife.

Exploring every inch of familiar flesh once more with fingers that seek out points that make her gasp and whimper, memorizing changes wrought by three children; some changes that will only last until the birth of the next. A fire kept blazing on the hearth, and candles lit so he might explore with eyes as much as with fingers and mouth. So he can watch the expression on Blanche's face as he slides into her slowly, driving her pleasure with gentle patience. Or perhaps so she might see him as easily, to read in his face and eyes and movement what he doesn't know how to say.

Read the emotion in his keeping her close as they sleep, arm wrapped tight around her waist to prevent her easily slipping away even if she wished to. To understand that same emotion is displayed in his dance of careful courtesy to her, his attention and devotion for these few months while he bides his time until his father recalls him to London. If his father recalls him to London, a matter which he's not entirely certain of.

They move on from Monmouth in the spring, when he hears his father's sending his own expedition to France, in the charge of his brother Thomas. Henry sends the messenger who delivers his father's wish for him to accompany the expedition back with the reply that he is attending upon his wife and children, and has little time for playing tutor for his brother's first command. Perhaps not a politic response to his father, but the insult is not one he's willing to let go unanswered.

It does, though, draw him back to London, particularly when his brother returns to report only failure. Too many rumors that draw on conversations that should have remained private, and his own careful removal of his father from effective power before, and he can't defend himself from them if he's touring the country with Blanche.

Only the birth of a third son in September distracts him briefly from the political mess that all has become since the previous November, and his choice of name for the boy mollifies his brother's wounded pride, at least. Though Henry had thought little of his brother with the choice, and more of the uncle who's supported his choices for years now, for the most part.

~ ~~ ~

The thin wail from the cradle nearly draws an answering sob from Blanche's own throat, though she hears movement from the nurse who has slept in the room as well since Thomas was born. Her youngest is too often ill for her to be able to care for him as well as she would wish without the other woman's assistance. Still, she's not slept properly, nor been able to provide as much of the care for her children as she ought.

At least this time he quiets quickly, the only sounds the soft sweep of his nurse's skirts over the rushes as she continues to walk, to keep him quiet and asleep. Quiet sounds that lull Blanche back to sleep, waking only to the morning sun creeping through the narrow windows. She gives a quiet murmur of thanks that her fretful child has slept the rest of the night, though it may well be because his nurse remained awake to carry him in her arms. He sleeps better when held than when laid in his cradle, much to Blanche's frustration.

"Your son is like to demand his breakfast soon, Your Highness." The nurse comes over as she sits up, Thomas still cradled in her arms. "Shall I have your own brought up as well?"

"If Maud is not already bringing up such, or has sent her granddaughter with the same, yes." Blanche takes her son from the nurse, cradling the boy close, stroking the tip of a finger over his face. Too thin for an infant, and ever paler than she thinks is right. Though as yet, he lives, and she prays God he might continue to do so. That he might grow to be as healthy and strong as his brothers and his sister.

"I shall see to it, Your Highness." The woman dips her head a moment before leaving the room to put action to word, as Blanche settles her son at her breast. Looking up when the door opens once more, giving Henry a small smile when he slips in. No doubt having waited until he saw the nurse leave to enter, as it would be sign enough that she's awake.

He comes over, settling at the edge of the bed to watch his son for a long moment. A faint hint of worry on his face that no doubt has its origins in the same concern as her own. "Did he sleep last night?" Henry asks, his voice quiet so not to disturb their son.

"Only once his nurse took him up from the cradle, and carried him on her shoulder. Like as not, the night through." Blanche keeps her own voice as quiet as Henry's, leaning against him after a moment, and he shifts so he might better support her. "At least Robert shall have his tutor to keep an eye on him, and Margaret and Edward their nurses, or I fear I would have difficulty containing them as well as keeping Thomas from fussing."

"You would manage, even if you'd no more than my meager help with the children." Henry smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. "And you've a whole household at your call that you manage with the same ease I might command a battle."

Blanche smiles, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "And yet, three children who all have your stubborn nature, my lord, have proved they might have the better of us both, if they think to work together."

"It will prove a benefit to them, and a frustration to the enemies of England when they are older. Though I think Margaret will prove as much a frustration to England if she were allowed." Henry traces a light finger across Thomas' face, drawing the infant's gaze to him. "She follows me when she might, as much as Robert did when the same age. With Edward in tow behind her."

"You indulge her by allowing it." Blanche shrugs, shifting Thomas around to her other breast. "Though she is easier to manage after a chance to follow at your heels than she is on days when she is confined to garden and rooms by her nurse and me."

Henry chuckles, and she can feel the smile on his face. "Then I will indulge my daughter as far as my conscience may allow."

"As you will, my lord, so long as she learns what she must, as well as what she would wish to in thinking to learn all that her brothers will." Blanche smiles to herself, though the expression fades a moment when a knock on the door precedes the entrance of her maid-servant with breakfast, and Thomas' nurse once more. Henry moves from the bed once she is settled against the pillows again, leaving her to her meal and her servants with a murmured promise to join her for dinner.

~ ~~ ~

Henry's glad to have the comfort of his family close at hand as autumn fades into winter, and his father once more takes to his sickbed. The illness is the same as others he's endured in the past, but this fit seems to be a greater blow than those before, leaving the king barely able to care for himself, much less for anything greater. It leaves Henry and his brothers to settle any arguments they might have among themselves, and to find some harmony while their father still lives.

Perhaps there is also that his son is ill in the cold weather that makes Henry want peace with his brother Thomas more than he wishes to hold any sort of grudge. Worry for the infant that is a constant nag at the back of his mind, and saps some small part of his energy. It is a worry that's well-founded, and blossoms into cold fear as the tiny boy is gripped by a fever late in February.

All he might do is pray that he survive, that some remedy might be found for the illness that makes him struggle for breath and burn as warm as any hearth-fire. Prayers that go unanswered, and leave him with bewildered children and a grieving wife and a son to bury. And perhaps it is grief at the loss of his grandson that drives the king's last illness, the fit that steals his life away barely a month after they've laid Henry's infant son to rest.

The ascension to the throne he can take in his stride, already of firm mind of what he intends to do now that he is king. Even the funeral of his father bothers him little in its details, though the grief for him lingers faintly in the back of his mind, overlaid with the persistent sorrow for his son, and the need to establish his rule.

Twenty days after his father let out his final breath, Henry looks out at the snow storm that has descended on London with a brief smile before he turns back to the hall where they are gathering for the procession to Westminster. Blanche and Robert are accompanying him, while Margaret and Edward remain with their nurses for the day. It's the first time the younger two have been out of Blanche's sight since Thomas died for anything save the night's sleep, though Henry expects it will only last until she returns to the palace.

Indeed, if he'd not made it clear he intended to have her crowned queen consort as he is crowned king, he thinks she might have remained in her rooms with their children kept close. Keeping them where she might know that they live and are well after a winter spent struggling to keep their youngest from succumbing to one illness or another, only to lose him in the end.

He draws Blanche to his side for a moment before the procession, murmuring reassurances that Margaret and Edward will still be well and waiting when they return. Trying to soothe the worry he can see in her face, so that it doesn't show as they make their way through London. He thinks it succeeds when she relaxes against him, though the moment is soon over as those who are part of the procession finish gathering. The handful of miles through the snow are enough to chill him even through the cloak he's wearing over his finery, and he has no doubt the rest of the party are likewise chilled.

It's not enough, though, to make him shiver as he enters Westminster Abbey, pausing only for a moment before starting down the nave, the ceremony remembered from being present at his father's coronation fourteen years ago. Though he doesn't remember the sense of power that comes as he looks out over those who are now his subjects, hears their recognition of him as king. That had been his father's, then, and it makes him understand a little more now why his father held so tightly to it.

The familiar words of communion wash over him, and he allows himself to be helped from one set of robes to another, rituals keeping him focused even as they imbued him with the power he'd tasted three years earlier. The sacred oil against his skin as he's anointed, the new robes that he's dressed in, the crown on his head, focuses of the power he wields now.

It's a far briefer ceremony to have Blanche crowned as his consort, before they receive the homage of clergy and nobility, fealty given and accepted with ease. And before they return to the palace itself, that Robert at least might escape the rest of the pageantry of the day, Henry invests his son with the titles he himself has less than a month laid by to take up the role he holds now.


	3. If It Be a Sin to Covet Honor

_He gives his fealty to Henry as everyone else does, one of a bare handful of those who bear no title to be in the cathedral, with his wife at his side. Watching his sister, pale and looking wan even in her rich gown, worry pinching between her brows. It's a familiar line, seen more than once on his own wife's face when one of their children has died, and reminder that for all that Blanche has gained, it doesn't bring her surcease from the cruelties of life._

_After, that he has the honor too of being invited to the banquet is as much a wonder as the command to attend upon the coronation. Richer fare than he can provide his own table, and largesse, and the pageantry of the champion. A Baron Scroop, his wife murmurs in his ear, who had been with Henry when he came to their home to collect his son years past. The man is still a favorite, then, to be Henry's champion for this._

_There is little after to hold him in London save a command of the king to come to the palace. For what purpose, he can't imagine, and is surprised then to receive letters patent that grant unto him the title of Baron, and with that title his father's small estate. That young Robert is there to assure him there is no ill-will for the return of his inheritance is equal surprise. It speaks of a trust, perhaps, between father and son that he often thinks was absent between himself and his own father._

_He has much to do after that audience, to remove his family to the home in which he spend his earliest years, and of which his sister had been so fiercely protective. That thought gives him pause and makes him wonder for a moment what she thinks of what has been done. If indeed she has worries at all beyond her children and her role as queen now, of which he would have no inkling as he has heard naught from her since the beginning of the year._

_"She would no doubt make no objection to what disposal the king and her son make of the Prince's lands." His wife guesses well his thoughts after the long years of their marriage, even though he's seen her only in the months between military service. "Nor is any such thing a concern of yours any longer. You've your own family to tend to, and she has the king to look after her."_

_A reminder of that which he is meant to be doing now, and welcome distraction from his thoughts. He thinks little upon his sister, indeed, for many months, and then only briefly and fondly in memories._

~ ~~ ~

There are fewer days now that Henry can spend with his children around the business of being king, though he still takes that time, regardless of the press of duty. Taking Robert out to hunt, and Margaret too when she sulks for days at being denied the chance. Finding a tutor for them both in how to use a bow, for hunting and for longer ranges, as it is a weapon he can see little harm in teaching Margaret to use, and it makes the small girl smile all the brighter. A smile he is glad to see once more as spring takes full hold on London, missing as it has been since the turning of the year.

It's not the only smile he has missed, and Blanche's smile is slower to return to her face, particularly when he sees little of her from their morning meal to the same in the evening. Duty to England and indulgence of his children perhaps ought be laid aside for a day or two so he might take time to tend to his wife, a sentiment he is quietly reminded of by Scroop, ever able to provide an apt bit of advice when it is most needed.

A fortnight taken out at Clarendon, the children left to the care of their nurses and tutors under the careful eye of Henry's uncle Thomas. Just them and a handful of servants to attend upon them, though Henry makes no secret of where they are, and should others wish to approach him for an audience while he is here, they may.

Although, if they do, he thinks they'll find it odd to see a king with his hands covered in soil and bits of green weeds. It is, though, worth the indignity to see a smile creep across Blanche's face at his offer to help her with whatever she might wish to do while here, away from the bustle of London.

"Careful, my lord." Blanche reaches over to stop him from closing his fingers around the plant he was reaching for. "That herb is where it is meant to be," she adds, a faint smile flashing across her face. It isn't the first time she's had to stop him pulling some plant meant to be in the garden.

Henry chuckles, shaking his head. "I have little talent for plants, and would, I think, make a ruin of these gardens without you to point out my mistakes." He looks over at her, glad to see some of the shadowed expression that's haunted her face since March faded away in favor of her smile.

"You would learn, if you wished to, even without me." Blanche holds his gaze, a habit she's learned in the years since he'd met her. "And you do not have to do this for me, I am glad enough for simply your presence."

"I wish to do this. At least, so long as it earns me a glimpse of your smile, for I have so little seen it of late, I feel starved for it." Henry knows she grieves for their dead son, but he can still wish to return some joy to her life. "What can I give you that will make you smile?"

"I have what I would wish of you, my lord. Your affection and the children which you give me, a home to call my own - and a surfeit of that last, for all that I've not seen every one." Blanche looks away, back to the herbs she's been tending, gathering a few more of the tenderest leaves. "I would not know how to ask for more than what I have."

Henry reaches out, using a dirt-stained hand to turn her face toward him again, watching her for a long moment before he leans in to kiss her. Brief, almost chaste, if as full of emotion as he might make it. "You have my love, and all I might give you in this world, Blanche. I do not know how I might give you less than everything. Therefore, ask anything you would wish, and I shall do what I must to give it to you."

She's quiet for a long moment, watching him with an expression he can't read before she murmurs, "Give me another child, one that might live and grow as strong as those we left in London."

It is a request he cheerfully can attempt to fulfill, the basket of herbs left for one of the servants to collect later as they return to the apartments they have the use of here.

Responsibility returns when they are back in London, Henry once more working at his plans for bringing his kingdom together and to gather from it the means to invade France and lay claim to the throne there. It is a duty that takes up most of his days, one less enjoyable, perhaps, than that which takes up his evenings, but as necessary if he's to provide properly for his sons and for his daughter.

Of which, Robert still follows him closely when he's not kept busy at his lessons by tutors, both books and the more practical lessons that will serve him on battlefield and in council chamber. Henry is willing enough to let his son watch him at work, remembering doing some of the same when he was close to the same age in Richard's care and court. Answering questions quietly asked as he is able, the informal lessons as important to his son as those given by Robert's tutors.

With summer wearing into autumn, the time spent ruling his kingdom and teaching his son how to do the same expands, as Blanche once more grows with child, ill often in the early parts of it, and more prone to bouts of temper than she'd been when carrying Thomas or Edward. Henry wonders if perhaps she was such with Robert or Margaret, though he doesn't dare ask Maud about the first. The older woman, though a servant, is highly protective of Blanche, and he doubts she'd tell him what he wishes to know.

His aunt Margaret is more willing to speak, and she says only that even a woman who carries children well might have a difficult pregnancy. That it means nothing and will pass is what he takes from that, and is careful to keep a balance to his duties as so not to become the unwitting focus of Blanche's current temper. The birth of a daughter in early March is a welcome gift, and with the advance of spring, a return of Blanche's usual calm and ease with family and household.

~ ~~ ~

Blanche settles her littlest against her shoulder as she watches Robert and Margaret practicing at archery, acutely aware of the others who have gathered to watch the impromptu competition between the siblings. Of them, she thinks only Beaufort knows the outcome already, having had the teaching of them both in archery and riding for the last year. He's proved well able to keep six-year-old Margaret interested enough in the archery that she hasn't taken a mind to other mischief as she had when trying to avoid learning what Blanche would have her learn as well.

"His skill with the bow is almost remarkable." The quiet observation from Baron Scroop makes Blanche take her attention from her oldest two for a moment, looking over at him. Not at all certain what he means by that, and frowning at him. "Only that he seems to do better with the competition to hone his skills against, and has not shown so open an enthusiasm for learning to wield a sword."

"I am sure my son does well enough in learning other skills of a martial sort." Blanche watches Scroop for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her children. "And he is only ten. There is time enough for him to learn how to use other weapons still."

"Perhaps not as much time as you would hope." Scroop gives her a bland smile in return to her dark frown. "You can't be blind and deaf to what plans His Majesty has as regarding his French claims?"

She's not unaware, but Blanche hopes Henry would not risk Robert's life by taking him on a military expedition when so young. Even he had been fourteen when she first met him as he fought against the Welsh who rebelled against him and his father. "That matter touches on Robert, yes, in that the lands which Henry shall once more make his own shall one day be Robert's, and perhaps sooner if Henry should be killed in the reclaiming of the same. But beyond that, what concern would a war so far from home be for a boy of tender years?"

Scroop shrugs, his attention ostensibly on the archery now. "He is his father's son. I can't imagine he'll want to be anywhere else."

What he says is true enough, and it worries Blanche that Robert may wish to travel with his father when war inevitably is carried across to the French. Perhaps, if God smiles on her, another solution may be found to regaining Henry's lands in France. It would give Robert a few more years to grow before facing the French at his father's side, as she has no doubt he will in due time.

"That as it may be, one should hope war comes later rather than sooner." Blanche shifts Joan against her shoulder once more, the sleeping infant settling comfortably against her. "So that Robert, and all who will follow Henry on his conquest, may be better prepared for it. Including yourself, Baron Scroop."

A small smile crosses Scroop's face. "I am as ready for war as I may be, Your Highness." And with that, he moves away, still watching the archery, and leaving Blanche with a frown on her face. She isn't sure what he means by what he's said, and she has that same nagging feeling of something wrong that she had during the months living in her brother's home.

Looking over her oldest two a moment longer, Blanche stands to leave, trusting Beaufort to keep both Robert and Margaret to their studies. Those out in the open air and in with their tutors at their books alike. She takes a moment to ensure Edward is with his nurse before collecting a basket and going to her garden as she still does when she needs the quiet to think. Dismissing the ladies-in-waiting who follow her, preferring the solitude of her thoughts as she settles into the familiar rhythm of tending to her garden.

Lady Margaret joins her in the still room later, after Blanche has left her littlest with a nurse, her quiet presence become as familiar as Maud's with Beaufort remaining in London as he does. That Lady Margaret is also considered a more appropriate companion for a queen only means she's more likely to join Blanche when Maud feels it's not her place to ask on what troubles Blanche.

"What did Baron Scroop say to upset you?" she asks after a little while, watching Blanche with an assessing gaze.

Blanche is quiet a moment, her hands moving automatically in preparations for soaps she's planning. "It is not what he said, I think, but perhaps why he said it. And that I cannot know, for he gave no sign of what he might have thought. After all, nothing he said is anything which I do not already know, and that I think he may well have known. Yet he spoke of war coming, and that Robert would follow Henry into such - and well I know my son would do so - as if I might be not aware. Perhaps to frighten me? I don't know."

"It would frighten any mother to know the danger her son would court, particularly so young as His Highness is." Lady Margaret worked with mortar and pestle to crush other herbs for the soaps, her gaze moving between her work and Blanche. "It needs no encouragement by any man."

"No." Blanche shakes her head, keeping her attention on the heating mix for the soap. "But I cannot be certain what caused my worry, not truly. Only that the last time I felt such concern for my son, my brother had care of me and Robert. That was solved easily enough, but this I doubt will be so simple. I do not even know if it is anything more than a mother's fears, with naught to cause them."

"There is nothing to tell if they are or are not, and even if they should prove to be nothing, I think it would do little harm to speak of them with His Majesty. Robert is his son, after all, and it would be hoped he has some of the same concern for his safety as you."

"Perhaps some of the same concern, but that I do not think would stop him from allowing Robert to accompany him to war with France." Blanche stirs her boiling mixture with care, watching it for the signs it's ready for the herbs to be added. "Though of our children, I think Robert the only one he would allow to follow him so far as that, and for that I am glad. I shall still have Margaret and Edward here as well as Joan, and that shall have to be enough, unless war waits enough time that I should have another."

"I do not think His Majesty shall wait that long, unless something should change." Lady Margaret exchanges a smile with Blanche, worry underlying their expressions. That matters are unlikely to change enough for that to be the course of things is something both know far too well to believe otherwise.

~ ~~ ~

Henry settles onto his throne, his council settling into their own seats, a double-row that forms something of a gauntlet for anyone approaching the throne. It's an effect that he's planning to take full advantage of when he meets the ambassador from France, particularly he has little doubt of the answer to his offer to the French court. An offer made with the likely answer already in mind, and plans to use that answer to his advantage.

He looks over his council without speaking, knowing the position of each on his plans to invade France. To a man inclined to this course, if some more eager than others. Even his son, who perches on the chair brought for today's audience, looking far more patient than Henry recalls being at ten. Watching the door as if he could see the French ambassador through it, still as a hunter waiting for the right moment to loose his arrow. Though Henry isn't entirely certain Robert will be so eager for war should the French surprise them all, and take up the chance to conclude this with some measure of peace.

"Our Archbishop of Canterbury, tell us what you might know of this ambassador the French have sent with their reply to our most gracious offer." Henry wants to know what he can before he meets the herald Charles has sent with his reply - though the choice of messenger may well be indication enough of his answer.

"The Montjoye King of Arms, His Majesty's principal herald, Your Majesty. A man seen often as closer to King Charles than any other in his court, and perhaps more attuned to the moods of this king." Canterbury looks thoughtful as he spoke, a faint frown in his expression. "Certainly a messenger of some importance, though I would doubt sent to signal acceptance of Your Majesty's most generous offer."

Henry nods, before signaling for the guards at the doors to allow the French ambassador in. Watching the tall, thin man who enters as he comes closer, stopping several feet from Henry's throne. Utterly composed despite where he is, the men around him, and whatever message he has brought.

"What answer does our cousin of France give to the offer our embassy made to him this past year?" That it's been so long in coming also gives the answer without the reply having to be made in words.

"This message my king bids me give to Your Majesty's bold demands. That Your Majesty wish to conclude agreement between England and France to wed the Princess Katherine to His Highness your son is most admirable, but the dowry you would demand of His Majesty is too great. He sends instead this offer of what he would provide as dowry for his daughter, if indeed she were to be wed to His Highness. This is all my king sends, though not all my message."

The parchment the herald has is brought to Henry, and he'll look it over later, once this audience is concluded. Particularly since he has no intention even to settle for what he had asked.

"What other message do you bring?" Henry is curious who else has used the herald to convey some message to him.

"From the Dauphin, if Your Majesty would give me leave to speak it in what words were told to me to give unto you?"

That the question is even asked makes the message to be something that is perhaps more insult than anything else, and Henry nods. He doesn't need any further reasons to war, but if the Dauphin offers one, he'll not refuse it.

"That Your Majesty thinks too highly of his birth, and that of His Highness. A son of a usurper should not hold even the crown he does, and shall not take the crown of France. Nor shall the illegitimate son of a common girl and that usurper's son ever be wed to a woman of such rank as is the Princess of France." The message is delivered with the same scorn and arrogance that the Dauphin no doubt imbued the words with, though there's something in the herald's gaze that suggests he finds the entire thing distasteful to say.

Henry can see the scowl on Robert's face out of the corner of his eye, and he meets Montjoye's gaze with an inscrutable expression of his own. "Your honesty, we thank you for. And tell the Dauphin, that he will find such words cause more weeping among the people of France when they must bury their kinsmen for them than they shall cause insult to me and mine. Our answer to your king, that our demands being not met, we shall not settle for lesser lands, but come in force to obtain that which is rightfully ours."

He pauses, nodding to Scroop and Cambridge. "See that the herald is given safe conduct to deliver our message back to France."

"Wait, if you would." Robert glances at Henry a moment, a moment's apology and plea for permission in his gaze before Henry nods. What message his son would ask sent in return as well, he'll allow. It's only fair that he too answer the insult given to him. "Tell the Dauphin that his insults are no better than those made by my sister, who is but six years old."

There are smiles gracing the faces of several of the nobles seated to either side, those who know the temperament of the girl Robert refers to. The expressions draw a faint amusement to the herald's face, and he nods to Robert.

"I shall so deliver your message, Your Highness." Montjoye bows briefly to Henry before he leaves in the company of those given charge of his safe conduct. The room remains silent until the doors have shut on the French herald, and Henry lets his council have their say on both message and reply. It has merely strengthened their resolve to follow him to France, and to war, and he could ask for no better message from France than what they sent.

The fire of that resolve spreads from London in the coming months, all of England preparing for the war that looms on the horizon. Henry coordinates it all, parchment a constant flow to and from Westminster, with barely a moment's peace to spend watching Robert at his lessons with Henry's uncle or to soothe the worries of Blanche for their son's fast-approaching first forays into warfare.

"He is in but his eleventh year, Henry." Blanche shifts their youngest against her shoulder, watching him with fear for Robert mixed with simple worry writ in her expression. "A child who should not be so far from the safety of his own home. Not so soon."

"Better for him to learn now, when I might be there to guide him, than for him to be thrown into it later." Henry watches Blanche pace from the chair he'd settled into when he returned to the rooms they share. "He has no little skill with the bow, and his skill with sword is not yet great enough that I would insist he be by my side in every battle. Indeed, I would think him best in the company of the men-at-arms who I would have as archers, and they will do all they might to keep him from pitched battle and the dangers of such."

"I do not want him to go." Blanche turns back again, her skirts swirling heavily around her. "I fear for him, that I shall not see my son return from this. Please, do not take him so far."

"He needs to learn the skills of war if he is to be a king who may rule effectively, as much as he needs to learn to manage money and law and people." Henry presses his lips together, not willing to yield on this. "Those skills cannot all be learned in safety, and he is well old enough to begin to learn the practical lessons as well. Or I would not have allowed him to sit at council to hear the embassy of the French."

"Practical lessons, learned at your side, and I have no say in the safety of my son." Blanche's face is a shade paler, and she draws in a deep breath as she turns away once more. "At least I shall still have my daughters to me, and Edward. Unless, when you go again after this sortie - and I should think that you shall, it would be ill-done not to - you should take our younger with you as well, and I shall risk losing both to sword or arrow."

"And if we should lose one or both, we shall have another." Henry pushes out of his chair to go to Blanche, resting his hands on her shoulders. "And if all we should have after are daughters, Margaret would make a queen as powerful as any king born outside of England."

"I fear to lose any of them, still. I would keep them all close to protect them, and yet still God might take them from me, further from my reach than you shall take Robert." Blanche leans into him, her voice little more than a whisper. "Do not ask me not to fear, nor to plead still that Robert remain here, for I doubt I shall be able to keep myself from asking such until you take your leave of London to this war with France."

"Then I shall not ask you not to try, but to remember it shall do little but vex us both." Henry presses a kiss to her temple, his voice nearly as quiet as hers. "And I shall do all that is in my power to keep Robert safe all the while we are in France and to bring him home to you as whole and hale as I shall do so with my own self."

"Then you must return without new scars to show, nor injured or ill." Blanche smiles wanly at him as she turns so she might lean her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "For all that I shall have Edward and my daughters with me, I think I shall not cease to worry until all my family is returned to me."

"All that is in my power to do, I shall, on that you have my promise." Henry wraps one arm around her shoulder, keeping her close for a long moment before the sound of feet on stone gives warning of the other three children coming, and the momentary peace they've constructed between them shatters into happy voices and smiles.

~ ~~ ~

_He is summoned to London to serve in Parliament in February, that body to give permission and funds for a war with France that Henry might redress grievances and reclaim his birthright there. After, he returns home only long enough to prepare to join the sortie. Elizabeth refuses to remain in Church Stretton alone, and though she would stay with her cousin, he sends a letter to his sister instead, to ask that his wife remain with her there._

_Her response is swift, if less encouraging than he might hope. He still remembers the promise to his sister when he first left, that his wife would be a sister to her, and he has hopes that they shall find some bond between them while they are each left bereft of husband. That his nephew also shall travel with the sortie does not occur to him until he joins the gathering troops near Southampton, and catches a glimpse of Robert._

_Nor is that the only surprise of the wait, though he says a prayer of thanks when the news spreads of the plot uncovered to murder the king. Perhaps too the prince, it is whispered, and to have the Earl of March placed on the throne over the younger prince still in London. It would be ill-done to murder Henry, and worse still to do such to Robert, as yet only in his twelfth year._

~ ~~ ~

Henry keeps Robert with him as they finish the preparations to sail, especially after the Earl of March approaches him with news of men coming to him to ask if he might take the throne once they've cleared it of the current king. That he refused is a given, and that he pointed out that it still would not be him upon the throne, with Henry having sons and daughters alike, and three brothers to follow them. They'd claimed it little problem, and easily solved.

That one of the conspirators is his own cousin is no real surprise, Richard being one with ambitions beyond his means. And perhaps there he had fed the fire with neglecting a detail that he sees too late to do ought but have his cousin executed privately for his part in the plot, if not quietly. The second, too, surprises him little, with his family connections to Richard, though his execution is not nearly as private as that of Richard.

He still, though, does not understand the third's reasons for becoming involved, nor why he would seek to put someone so distant from Henry upon the throne. Scroop hadn't admitted anything, either, though letters in his possession and those of Richard are damning enough. Only that he had no intention of putting March on the throne, as the other two had planned. What he had planned he takes to the block and from there to the grave, refusing to confess his reasons even to the priest before he is sent to execution.

"They had French gold in their purses as well. It could be as much a reason as any for Scroop to betray you." His uncle Thomas is pragmatic as ever in his opinion, and as blunt, as they take their evening meal. All three traitors have been executed, and they sail on the tide tomorrow, so it's little concern why Scroop betrayed him, though it is still a curiosity. "Still, it was an evil thing to betray a man he's called friend these last fourteen years."

"Why would he do something like that for money?" Robert looks puzzled, perched in his seat to Henry's right. Safely surrounded by his father and uncles and a few trusted others, where it will take greater effort than most would manage to murder him.

"Greed is a sin that can corrupt even a friendship that appeared as deep as that of Scroop for your father." Bishop Chichele shrugged, shaking his head. "And that sin is upon the heads of the advisors to His Majesty of France, as well, for they provided the gold with the thought to keep all that is properly the inheritance of Your Highness's father."

"And we're going to reclaim that inheritance from them." Robert looks to Henry with a question in his expression. Seeking confirmation that his supposition is correct, and Henry gives him a nod. It isn't entirely his plan for this year, but for the longer-term, that is what he intends, and that his son so easily can see that reassures him that even if he should fall in the effort to reclaim what should be his, his son shall carry on that work.

"As well as address grievances and insults given to His Majesty and to Your Highness," adds Bedford from the far side of Robert. "All fine reasons to take war to France, instead of waiting for them to raid our shores as they've done in the past. Remove the threat to English merchants on the Channel, as well."

"If God smiles on our cause, we should see all of this done." Henry takes another bite of his meal and a sip of his wine before adding, "Perhaps not in a year, or even two, but however long it should take, see it completed."

Discussion turns from there to the matters of the plans for the coming sortie into France; details of the sort that Henry will not entrust to parchment that might fall into the hands of the French and thus give them warning of his plans. Those in the room with him he trusts enough to be certain they will not share the information with others save as is needed to ensure all arrive where he intends. Nor have they, as this is only the latest in meals over which the plans have been made for his taking of Harfleur.

The crossing of the channel between England and France goes well enough, and they make a safe landing at Kydicaus the next day. It only takes two days to surround Harfleur, his ships creating a blockade that will completely cut off Harfleur from assistance, even should one or another party of the French make some effort to help the besieged city. Something he doesn't find highly likely, though he does make plans in case they stop posturing at each other long enough to do so.

As August stretches on, it is a matter that seems less likely, though the city still holds out against him despite the terrible din of bombardment and the constant worrying of his army at the walls. The return to his call for surrender is silence and gates still kept shut against him and his, though he expected little else. So he continues to direct the siege, and to wait for starvation, illness, and the constant bombardment to take their toll enough for the city to break.

September comes, and with it, illness in his men as well as in the city. It doesn't leave even those closest to him untouched, though at least Robert has no sign of having contracted it, and for that, Henry offers a prayer of thanks. He would not care to send his son home to recover as he must send Clarence and others home, not the least of the reasons which would be the worry it would inflict upon Blanche to have another child ill, for all that Robert is a strong lad and like to recover from any such.

Another call on the city to surrender is once more met with defiance, although tempered by a desperation that compels them to agree to provide him hostages in return for the permission for an envoy to pass through his army to seek aid from the French court. That the envoy returns with no such aid is little surprise, and Henry gives orders that a dais be prepared for the ceremony of the city's surrender. He'll do this properly, and impress upon those who still would hold out who was properly master of the city.

It's a matter of a week to settle his uncle Thomas in the city as its captain, and to convene a close council to hear the tenor of their wishes in returning to England, for that much, at least, he has in mind. His objective has been achieved, and there is little more he can or will do this year in France. But to return back the way they came, over the sea to Southampton, seems too much a retreat, for all that his commanders agree it would be best for the men - ill and wishing for home as they are.

"I will not simply retreat over the channel." Henry shakes his head, despite the dismay he can see in some of the faces around him. "I will have passports made for those who are ill, or have pressing news of family that requires their close attention, but for myself, and the rest, we will march to Calais, and take ship from there."

"Not the best of plans, Your Majesty." His uncle is ever blunt with his observations, and he shrugs at the raised eyebrow from Henry. "It is still your will to which they, and we, will bend, but you asked what our thoughts were on where next to go, and we have given you them."

"So noted, and yet I shall march to Calais." He has hopes that it would only take little more than a week to reach the coastal city, perhaps a fortnight at the worst, and he makes preparations for the march with that in mind.

What starts out a pleasant enough journey, with some small towns offering food and drink along the way, turns into a draining fortnight as they race the French along the Somme to a point where they might cross. Still several days march from Calais, and exhausted when a small party comes riding to meet them, with the only familiar face among them being that of Montjoye.

Henry watches the heralds - for heralds they must be, as he can see no weapons about them, nor armor, save tabards which bear the arms of their masters upon them - as they approach, reining in his own horse to wait for them to come closer. Robert draws his horse closer to Henry, as do Bedford and Gloucester. All waiting to hear what the heralds have to tell them, though there is little doubt of what it might be.

"Your Majesty." Montjoye bows his head briefly as he brings his horse to a halt a comfortable distance from the small party waiting for him. "Your Highness, my lords. From the Constable of France, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, I bring greetings, and likewise from the king, my master."

"And what message from them do you bear?" Henry watches Montjoye patiently, though the herald's expression is unreadable now, when he is surrounded by armed men and must have some small fear for his life if the message is one Henry does not like. No matter that Henry knows full well he has charged his soldiers not to assault the French, nor otherwise cause them harm, even when he must dispense justice to those who would rebel against their rightful lord.

"The king, my master, says that he might have rebuked you at Harfleur, had he thought it good time to constrain your bloody chevauchée, and commands you look to your ransom. For my lord Constable, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon stand now to challenge your army in open battle, as commanded by His Majesty."

Silence reigns a moment before Henry tilts his head briefly in Montjoye's direction. "Your message thus delivered, turn back, and take this to your masters all," he says just loudly enough for the other heralds to hear as well. "That we do not seek battle, but nor shall we turn aside to avoid it, though all of France and what neighbors would stand with her bar the road between here and Calais. No ransom shall they have of me, nor of those who march with me but bones and blood."

Montjoye once more bows his head in acknowledgement of the message. "I shall so deliver it, Your Majesty."

Henry has no doubt he will, words and tone alike, though there is a faint pensiveness about his expression as he turns his horse away, returning along the same road now that he has delivered his message to Henry. First, no doubt, taking the message to what army awaits them before he would ride on to deliver it also to his king. But with what thoughts in his head, that he had such an expression on his face, Henry can't tell, and after a moment's thought, dismisses the concern for now.

Instead turning his thoughts to what lies ahead on the road as he gives the order to march on, already contemplating how to win a battle against what army waits for them, traces of which he can see in the road - wagons and horses and men in great numbers. Larger an army, certainly, than his own.

Four days later, they cross another river, smaller than the Somme, and catch the first glimpse of what army awaits them. Three, perhaps four men to every one of his, and impressive in armor that gleams in the weak sunlight. The afternoon is spent trying to pick the ground on which to fight, and preparing for a battle that would be fought the next day. And watching the French, trying to discern numbers and composition of the army that he faces.

Men at arms, certainly, and cavalry, those he can see. Even a cannon, though if they will use it, he is uncertain. After all, to do so, they will risk the loss of honor, and that is something Henry doubts they will wish. What he sees all but nothing of are archers of any sort, even ones bearing a heavier crossbow rather than a good longbow. A failing, he thinks, and smiles faintly to himself.

"Would that we had another ten thousand archers, and the arrows to spare for them." The comment comes from one of the knights in his retinue behind him, though he can't see which, and Henry shakes his head.

"Those we have shall suffice, God willing, and as I have done all justly and with proper reverence to him, I should think he will smile upon us." He watches the French across the field for a moment longer before turning away. "There will be no battle today, and I would have the men get what sleep they may. Give orders that the night shall be spent strictly in silence, and camp made."

And while his nobility scatter to do as he's told them, Henry turns his attention to the prisoners they have taken from Harfleur, and who have marched with them from that place. Commanding that they should be released - but only on condition that they return to their captivity should the English win the field on the morrow. It gives him more men to spare for the battle, and he needs every man he can field.

The night is spent in tense silence, though Henry has little doubt most of his men eventually sleep, despite the cold rain that begins with the setting of the sun. He finds little of it himself, and abandons the pretense before dawn to ensure he's armed and armored well before there is a stirring in the French camp across the muddy fields they'll fight on today.

Robert joins him for masses as the sun rises, his armor no more and no less than that of the other archers. Save that no other bears the arms of England on their surcoat, even differenced as his are to let all who see know that here is the Prince of Wales, the heir to Henry's throne. A valuable hostage, should they capture him, for all that Henry has denied there shall be ransom for any captured English.

After, Robert is drawn with the other archers to the wings where Henry has ordered them, safely surrounded by men who will die to keep him safe and out of the hands of the French - not when he chose to accompany them on this march rather than take ship for England when given the chance. A gesture that is not lost on Henry, and draws a smile to his face at his son's quiet loyalty, even if perhaps merely to him.

A smile that fades after a moment, and Henry secures his bascinet, with the gleaming circle of gold fixed to its crown to draw the eye, and mounts his horse. His banners are raised, and the line of battle spreads across the field as he's ordered it, a thin enough line, but ready. Waiting for the French across the field in their glittering steel to charge to meet them. A wait that is more prolonged than he likes, and Henry narrows his eyes after long hours, and draws a breath.

"Now is good time, with all of England praying for us. Therefor, with good cheer let us go upon our journey." His voice carries to those closest, but not much further, and he raises his voice in a battlefield bellow that he knows most of his men will hear. "In the name of Almighty God, and Saint George, avaunt banner! And Saint George, this day thine help!"

There is some brightening of the expressions around him, and Henry nudges his horse into motion, picking his careful way across the muddy field until the archers are within range of the French. A slow smile crosses his face as the archers drive their stakes, waiting patiently for the first volley, which has the desired effect. The cavalry charge goes as awry as he hopes, and he draws his sword as he waits for the advancing French.

From there, his world both narrows and broadens, target and strike, maneuver and command. The first are so deeply ingrained they are instinct and reaction that never rise to the level of thought, the second learned in much the same uncompromising school as the first. Only when the first two battles stand captured to the rear, or dying in the clinging mud can he allow himself to let go of some of that strange mood that is the grip of battle.

Two battles, when there were three drawn up that he had seen at the start of the day - and a third, many mounted, still wait on the high ground. Not yet attacking, and yet, if they do, there is the risk his victory, tenuous, could become defeat, and rob England of king and heir in one blow. Henry can't afford that, and he watches them for a long moment before having Robert come to him, and some of the archers with him.

"Get the prisoners off the field. If they refuse to move, kill them." They are as much a risk as the cavalry that looms on the top of the low hill, and for all the protests he can hear now coming from those men-at-arms who expect a ransom, he cannot afford the risk. And he can see none of the doubt of his men-at-arms in his son's eyes, as Robert nods, drawing himself up with a dignity Henry thinks he could not have emulated at that age.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

It is a command that perhaps later Henry will regret, but it is one that is effective - the archers are without arrows, and can be spared, and when a few of the most stubborn prisoners fall prey to the archer's daggers, the rest allow themselves to be herded away. And perhaps it is that which convinces the last of the French to yield the day, and leave the field.

Allowing Henry to have the heralds come from their places observing the battle, accepting the formal bow that Montjoye makes from his saddle with a nod, waiting patiently for the words that he must gain from the French herald. To formalize his victory, and perhaps to find what village lies closest to the fields they've fought upon.

"The day is yours, Your Majesty." There is nothing else Montjoye can say, and he doesn't waste breath on more elaborate words of surrender, his face expressionless save for the agony that lurks in his eyes for the sheer numbers of the dead. "With your leave, that we may count the dead and put name to what bodies we might."

"You so have it, good herald. What is the name of the village that lies nearest?" Henry needs perhaps a bit more than that to truly start handling the aftermath of the battle, but the rest, he shall ask after the dead have been counted and what might be stripped from the bodies has been.

"Agincourt." Montjoye looks curious a moment, before Henry says to name the battle after it, and then he merely nods, his expression shuttered once more. Another bow, and he takes his leave to do as he's asked to be allowed, though Henry catches the gleam of pain in his eyes again as he turns his horse toward the battlefield.

Henry directs his own horse toward Maisoncelle, giving orders that they'll spend the night there again before preparing to march for Calais in the morning. And to strip the bodies of what can be used, outfitting each man with what they need, and burning the rest. He is looking forward to sleeping that night, better than he had the night before.

Sleep that he finds he'll be denied, as one of the archers comes to fetch him while he's still giving orders, and waiting to hear the numbers and names of the dead. It seems his son has the full measure of his own stubborn nature, and it's taken the battle being over for Robert to admit to having been injured in a too-close encounter with some French man-at-arms during the battle. If only in collapsing once out of sight of the prisoners, and being taken into one of the houses of Maisoncelle, where the royal physician is already in attendance.

"He will recover well enough, Your Majesty." The physician doesn't even give him a chance to speak, glancing up a moment when the door opens before returning his attention to his careful stitches. "The wound isn't very deep, and I have cleaned it well with wine to help prevent him from taking wound-fever." He tilts his head slightly to the waiting pot of honey. "That shall assist further, once spread upon the wound, if Your Majesty would recall some years ago his own experience. There shall barely be a scar to upset Her Majesty."

That recalls the promise Henry had made to Blanche before leaving England, and while he shall tell her he had done all he might, there is some small doubt that he had done. Save that he knows he would not have been able to keep Robert with the baggage - his son would have chafed much at being left inactive when he'd been meant to learn some of the realities of war from this sortie. He had done as he'd said, and kept Robert with the archers where he was safest, for all that he'd not been entirely safe from harm in the end.

He settles on a stool near the bed where Robert is lying with eyes screwed tightly shut, as the physician does his work. Reaching out a hand to press it against Robert's shoulder, feeling the tension in the young frame as his son tries to hold still for the needle that is sewing up his flesh.

"I've given him a dose of poppy syrup, if less than I'd like for the pain." The physician gives Robert a mildly exasperated look, though there's little surprise there. He's been in his position long enough to know well the stubborn nature of Henry and his children, having treated all of them for one or another illness or injury. "And he should travel in a horse litter if that may be contrived, rather than atop his horse."

"No matter what you think of such a thing, Your Highness," he adds when Robert lets out a huff. "And if it hurts rather a bit more than you expected, perhaps you ought to have accepted the full dose of poppy syrup."

A recommendation that Henry listens to, despite Robert's protests, the physician riding near the litter to keep a close eye on his patient, and Henry on the other side. The march to Calais is uneventful, the French army broken and scattering without providing further resistance. Only once they have arrived in Calais does trouble show its face once more, in the lack of supplies to give his army even a few days rest, and it takes a great effort to find all he needs to return his soldiers to England while he remains. He'll return soon enough, once everything that must be settled has been, and he has given London time enough to prepare as they wish for his return - and Blanche the same.

~ ~~ ~

When news arrives of the battle, Blanche is glad for the quiet company of her brother's wife, and of Lady Margaret. No matter that Henry won the day, though it does give her some comfort that they will be returning rather than a demand coming for the ransom of her husband and son, a battle on open ground had still been fought, and that would risk Robert, no matter how well protected he might be.

The pealing of church bells doesn't raise her spirits any, and she frets until the message comes that Henry and Robert have landed at Dover, over a fortnight later. Along with a brief note that they shall come to the manor at Eltham before entering London, and that has Blanche determinedly moving her small retinue and the children to the manor so she might greet the return of Henry and Robert sooner.

A greeting marred by Robert's grimace and stiff movement when he slides from his horse, and the physician's close attendance to her son. Blanche presses her lips together to keep from asking what has happened in sharper a tone than should be taken in full view of all, though she can see in Henry's expression that he knows what she wishes to ask. Enough, she hopes, that he will give her the full tale of all that has happened, even that which will cause her some grief.

She follows Robert and the physician inside as Margaret and Edward all but attach themselves to Henry's sides, loudly demanding tales of the last three months and the fighting that has kept their father from home. She only hopes they don't attempt to recreate the siege or battle in their play, or she will have more to worry about than whatever has happened to Robert.

"He will be well enough with some rest, Your Majesty." The physician slows his steps a moment to drop back to walk beside her once Robert shakes off his supporting arm with a wordless, irritable sigh. "The wound is healing well enough, and shallow as it was, I do not think there shall be even all that much of a scar."

Words meant to soothe her worries, though Blanche hopes they are honest in as far as the physician will speak of what has happened. Knowing that will better bring calm to her frayed spirit than anything else. "Can you tell me what happened, that my son was injured? Save what must be easily imagined, that it happened in that battle at Agincourt."

"More than that you shall have to ask His Highness or His Majesty, as I have only the knowledge pressed upon me by His Highness' comrades and the viewing of the wound when I was brought to provide care for it. And that I shall not describe, if Your Majesty will forgive me, if neither His Highness nor His Majesty ask that it be done."

The physician looks at her a moment before returning his gaze to Robert, watching him carefully as they turn down the corridor on which Robert's room is. "So long as His Highness rests as he is instructed, there should not even be need for Your Majesty to dote more closely upon him than you would your other children."

Blanche frowns a moment before she draws a deep breath, thinking on Robert's shrugging off the help of the physician, and nodding. Her close attention to her son may well be unwelcome, though she worries for him, and would do all she might to keep him safe and well. She keeps silent as she thinks, searching for a solution even as she makes sure Robert is safely tucked into his bed, with a page sent to bring dinner for him as the physician instructed.

Only in returning to the solar, and the bright cheer of Margaret and Edward cajoling Henry for more stories, does she hit upon what might be the best way to keep Robert resting as he's told. A small smile crosses her face as she watches her family a moment, and adds keeping her elder daughter and younger son out of mischief to what having them keep Robert company might do. If, at least, she has them remain under the careful eye of one of their nurses.

"Perhaps you might see if Robert would wish some company for his dinner, to tell his own tales of France." She meets Henry's gaze over the children's heads as they fall quiet, blond heads bent toward each other as they exchange whispers. Seeing new lines etched into his face, and a hint of grief lurking in his eyes that she doubts he'd let show around the children.

She waits until the older two have gone to take up her suggestion before telling Joan's nurse to take her to the garden, to let her play there a while and give Blanche and Henry some quiet to make their own delayed greetings.

"He is whole, even if I shall worry about whatever wound he took." Blanche's voice is quiet, and she crosses the room once she shuts the door. Watching Henry's face fall into more tired lines, the cheer melting away once there is some privacy. She bites her lips a moment before cupping his face in her hands and leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. Meeting his gaze when she draws back, searching to see if she might discern something of his thoughts. "And I think though you do not show any sign that you have taken an injury to your body, you have not come back as whole as I might wish."

Henry is quiet a long moment, looking away with a faint frown and a distance in his expression that she's not seen before. "I would wish not nearly so many dead as have fallen, even those who stood across the field at Agincourt to bar the way to Calais. For God's protection I will give thanks, but it does not take away the folly of the French that cost them so many dead on that field."

There's little she can say to that, save to reach for his hand, tugging him after her from the solar to their bed room. Carefully undressing him, and then herself; offering him what solace he might find in her body and affection, to perhaps wear at the edges of his anger and grief so they don't cut so deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorts to go with this chapter:
> 
> [And In His Wake, Death](http://archiveofourown.org/works/283676), Agincourt from the point of view of the Montjoye King of Arms.


	4. Small Time, But In That Time Most Greatly Lived

_He remains with the royal household as Henry arrives in London, riding in his wake past the pageantry which the people of London have put on for their returning king. Seeing the surprise in the king's simple dress that he feels reflected in their faces - indeed, the only one who seems truly unsurprised by Henry's choice is Blanche, though that may perhaps be because she'd been with him as he dressed._

 _Once the household is settled at Westminster, he asks leave to take his wife and return to his home, where he remains through the next year. Reading closely the letters sent from his sister, who had become closer to his wife in the months of the sortie to France. She tells of the pageantry of Emperor Sigismund's visit, and of the genuine honor he seemed to feel at being asked to serve as one of the godfathers of her youngest son when he is born in August._

 _That there is, too, in that month a battle fought to relieve the French blockade of Harfleur, makes August the most eventful month of the year, if only at a distance. His own time is spent in administration of his small estate, and attendance upon his own family, and excitement enough only in the news sent from his sister._

 _October brings more news, though little of it truly of significance, for all that there is mention that Henry has persuaded Burgundy to sign some undertaking. It is more the word in January that indentures are being made for another campaign in France that draws his attention, and he makes his own promises to serve as he has in the past._

~ ~~ ~

Blanche keeps a close eye on her youngest two where they're napping on the fur in front of the hearth, Joan curled up next to her infant brother, one chubby arm holding him close as if to keep him from wandering off if he wakes. She's taken more to watching Blanche and babbling to Richard than she has to the rough-and-tumble mock-battles that are her older siblings' games of choice. Perhaps in part because the two-year-old can't hold her own in them, perhaps because she's more inclined to the gentler pursuits of a woman than her sister has shown. It still brings some sense of comfort to Blanche's heart that at least this one of her children is unlikely to wish to follow her father to the war with France.

A war that will resume all too soon, taking Henry and Robert across the narrow sea and away from her. A small frown crosses Blanche's face at that thought, and she looks across the solar at the desk Henry has spent more time at since they arrived at Kenilworth than anywhere else. He's writing notes, perusing whatever matter needs tending the most today, while Robert perches on a stool nearby, watching and sometimes asking low-voiced questions that she pays little attention to.

Margaret and Edward being herded back in from the cold by their uncles breaks into Blanche's thoughts, driving the worry away with the infectious joy that they bring with them. Richard wakes, and his demanding scream for attention jolts Joan out of her nap as well, turning what had been a peaceful afternoon into chaos, and pulling Henry from his planning. Blanche smiles, picking up Richard to soothe him while she watches the rest of her family.

She holds the image in her mind to banish worries as best she might over the next few months, while all around her prepare for war once more. Henry is too often busy through the day, coming to their bed only long after the sun has set, until she asks him to leave the plans in the hands of his brothers and uncles, capable men all, for just a day or two.

"All you might do before you sail is done, save matters which can be delegated." She meets his gaze with a small smile on her face. "And I've not seen you save for snatched moments as we wake since the turning of the year." Blanche reaches up to lay her hand along his cheek, pushing up on her toes to kiss his lips, lingering when he settles his hands at her hips.

"I've still to ensure instructions are in place should I not return," he says quietly after a long moment, resting his forehead against hers. "Or if both I and Robert fail to return to England."

"I know what must be done, if such should happen." Blanche leans into him, trying not to think on that. She doesn't much like being regent while Henry is absent, though few decisions must be made that she can't defer until a courier might take missives to Henry and return others back again. "And that can wait until tomorrow. I would ask all your attention today."

A soft chuckle escapes Henry, and he leans in to kiss her again, lazy and unhurried. After a long moment, he pulls away long enough to summon a page to take instructions to Bedford and Clarence that they're to take care of any matters that come up today that cannot wait until tomorrow. They're capable enough of it, and Blanche has already made sure that the nurses and tutors who help to keep the children occupied know not to disturb her today.

It is a pleasant day spent together, sunlight revealing what firelight and candlelight do not. Subtle changes and faint scars that she traces with light fingers and soft kisses, when she isn't overwhelmed by the sensations Henry evokes in her own flesh. Memorizing every inch of him so she has that to hold onto if he shouldn't return. Clinging to every moment to banish the fear that this will be one of the last times she sees him, and surrendering to sleep only with reluctance long hours after the sun has set.

~ ~~ ~

A day of rest doesn't delay his preparations, and it's less than a fortnight before Henry boards his newly built ship, Robert trotting in his wake, slightly awkward in the way of a growing youth. Despite his growing skill with a sword, that will keep him to the archers and Henry's shadow in the command tent - it is too expensive to armor a growing boy, and too much risk to allow him in closer than bow range to battle or siege without.

Safe passage to France, and they land near Touques before establishing themselves on the left bank of the Seine. The formal declaration of defiance and war is dispatched, sending Exeter as his ambassador to Charles. He waits for no reply before laying the first siege of this conquest, after a march of some thirty miles, to the city of Caen.

With that city in hand by the beginning of September, Henry turns his attention southward - Brittany is no threat, and Burgundy is mustering his army for his own conquests to the north and the east. Town after town, each brought under his control before moving on, save for one. The fortifications of Falaise make it a formidable town to conquer, and Henry intends to cut it off before moving on it.

A task he takes on once treaties have been settled with Brittany and Anjou and Maine. His flanks protected by diplomacy, he can turn his attention to the town that birthed his ancestor who conquered England centuries before. With reasons much that same, Henry thinks, as his own, in an inheritance denied by those who had no authority to deny it. Not a sentiment the people of Falaise share, as winter falls, and the walls still hold.

Henry has Robert return to Caen in December, to observe and participate in the continuing rebuilding there, and the restoration of government. He has time enough to learn more of warfare in this campaign, and Henry will not allow him to risk illness in a winter siege when he might set him to other tasks.

It is February before Falaise falls, and Henry sends word to Exeter in England to prepare a retinue to come over with the spring and warmer weather. He himself returns to Caen to oversee the same which he has had Robert doing through the winter. Sending his son instead with Gloucester in April, to lay siege to Cherbourg. It is a long one, and difficult, providing Robert with lessons that Henry had learned in Wales, and applied in his conquest of France.

Winter runs into spring once more, and Henry takes up with his army again, sweeping up towns of Lower Normandy that lie on the left back of the Seine, taking last in July the town of Ponte-de-l'Arche. A bridge of boats allows them to cross the river, and he sends Exeter and Robert to bring him the information he needs to lay siege to Rouen. Paris can wait, cut off from river traffic as much as Rouen, but the Norman capital must fall. From there, he has political control of all of Normandy, and the seat of ducal power.

His soldiers circle the city closely, while Henry takes his own lodging in the Charterhouse at Mont-Sainte-Katherine. Robert chooses to remain with the soldiers, camped close with Gloucester to oversee his part in the siege. He's grown in the company of Henry's youngest brother, and while still a youth, he's as ready to take his own small part in warfare as Henry had taken up at his age. With loyal knights to see to his household, Robert has all Henry might provide him for this.

All save a wife to bear him a family as bountiful and strong as Henry's own, of which he's heard news of another son born in April, and healthy as any of his brothers or sisters. For Robert, though, Henry already knows he will have to seek either a Burgundian or French bride. Perhaps Charles' youngest, a girl but a year older than Robert, or perhaps Anne of Burgundy, of an age with his son. Either will be suited, dependent upon the direction of the war and the players therein.

It is a matter he contemplates as the siege wears on through August into September, with the people of Rouen standing fast. Supplies come to Henry and his army up the river from Harfleur, and ditches are dug and planted with stakes at his order, so there might not be a swift attack sallied out from the gates to take his army by surprise. That those same ditches are used as meager shelter by those turned out by the city as the autumn turns to winter fuels his desire to capture the city, angered at their cruelty.

That they expect him to feed them is sheer arrogance on their part, and he refuses to care for their weak along with his own - he cannot afford it, save perhaps a meal at Christmas, not if he is to continue this siege. They will pay for the consequences of their actions, not him.

Perhaps it is that which encourages them to come to treat with him, though they like not the terms, nor can agree with them at first. Henry will not yield, though, waiting patiently for them to come to the conclusion they cannot continue as they are, unless it is to leave him the task of burying the population of a dead city some months from now.

When they surrender, Henry sends Robert into the city ahead of him to take possession of it in Henry's name, a public demonstration of the trust he has in his son. Banners fly, and people gather the next day to see Henry as he enters the city, and he goes first to the cathedral, before going on to the castle where Robert waits to see that it is formally handed over to Henry.

There, he settles in to begin putting his duchy to rights, diplomacy and fortification his weapons for the year with Parliament reluctant to provide him further grants of money. He's reviewing reports from the southern border, and those from envoys he's sent to the Dauphin and to Burgundy when a messenger arrives from England with an unexpected letter.

Margaret has left tear stains on the parchment, that Henry has little doubt are more from frustration than any other emotion. Pleading for his permission to come to Rouen, now that he has conquered it. Certain that she would be safe enough, that he can read between her words, an illusion Henry does not have, nor can afford.

A letter from Bedford in the same packet informs him Margaret had been caught at the gate while attempting to leave London without any permission at all - in the company of her tutor, who resides now in the Tower awaiting his trial and execution for treason and kidnapping. It doesn't matter that it might have been Margaret's idea, that the tutor helped her is suspicious on its face, and condemns him in Bedford's eyes, as well as Henry's.

His reply to Margaret should keep her in London, and Henry sends to his brother to do as he sees fit to dispose of the former tutor. Finding another is a task he won't entrust to someone else, as the last was a choice of his uncle, and while Exeter does well enough in most things, this time Henry has different thoughts on who should be a suitable tutor for Margaret.

At the end of April, Henry sends one of his household back to London with instructions for Margaret's education, hoping the young knight can keep her from causing more havoc than she yet has. Though that matter is soon driven to the back of his mind as he travels to Meulan to meet Burgundy and Charles for negotiations - and for Robert, who travels with him, to meet and perhaps woo Princess Katherine.

They come with great ceremony to the tent erected at the center of a field, each of the retinue dressed in their finest, with all the symbols of office displayed as they might best do. Henry enters from one side as the French come from the other, noting with a frown the absence of Charles. It is an ill omen for the outcome of the negotiations, as the French will no doubt use that as an excuse to demur on providing him the settlement he seeks.

He settles into his chair, his retinue arraying themselves behind him at his gesture, Robert at his right, in such a position that he might easily speak with Katherine when Burgundy arrays his own retinue across the table. At least that much seems to be a mutual hope, that the two youngest here shall find each other pleasing enough to be willing to marry.

"Greetings, from our brother France to England." Burgundy nods his head to Henry, his tone as measured as his words. "It is with regret he must beg your indulgence that his illness does not allow him to travel here, and asks that you pray accept Her Majesty and ourselves as his representatives."

"We greet you, our cousin Burgundy, and too, her Majesty of France." Henry returns the nod with the same precise care, giving no more than Burgundy had given him. "Our indulgence our brother of France has, and we wish him soon to be well."

With the first formalities of greeting passed, they soon set their minds to negotiations, as Robert and Katherine sit silent and awkward. They shall have time enough over these meeting to talk further, and indeed, as the negotiations stretch out over days and weeks, all that seems to be going well is that cultivated introduction of Robert and Katherine. An asset to him, Henry might hope, if Burgundy were not so reluctant to give way on anything of substance. Charles still does not appear, even as May passes and June follows, a matter which brings more doubt to the outcome of these so-delicate discussions.

When Burgundy fails to arrive for another meeting at the beginning of July, Henry's mood darkens further, not helped when the Dauphin meets with Burgundy to agree to a truce a mere week later. He dismisses the envoys from Burgundy with curt acknowledgement of the duke's desire to resume business in October - the commercial treaty that had so recently been made is of little value if there is no manner of parting the Dauphin and Burgundy.

And so he makes preparations, that he might strike swiftly and surely once the truce expires at the end of July. Sending Robert with those that will take Pontoise, and his brother Clarence to take a force further along the way to Paris, and camp outside the walls of Saint-Denis. Sweeping up the Seine from Meulan to Paris in scant weeks, and garrisoning each of his new conquests with care.

September comes, and with it the news first that Burgundy and the Dauphin are to meet, and then that Burgundy has fallen, murdered by some contrivance of the Dauphin or his men, for which he bears the responsibility.

"This changes all, my lord." Bedford is with him when the tidings are brought to where they are encamped outside Paris, as are Clarence and Robert, though it is his middle brother who speaks first. "With Duke John fallen, his son has but a weak claim upon the throne, and the Dauphin, with this murder, has disgraced himself too greatly to take up that seat."

"Indeed, brother." Henry frowns once more at the missive brought to him, the note but a brief one telling of little more than of who and where a death has happened that might be of import to him. "He has changed the game, and perhaps more than he yet knows. We shall think upon what must be done, and of what embassy we shall send to our brother France, and into Paris that we might seek what is ours by right."

"And too, what they would not agree upon before?" Robert has a small smile on his face, and Henry can well understand where his son's thoughts lie. It is cause enough for him to return Robert's smile, and chuckle. His son had better wooed Katherine than Henry had his own bride, with more clever words than Henry had employed in his own speaking to Blanche years past now.

"That as well, yes, though I shall think we'll not demand that they provide her a dowry, should all else of articles presented to France be met, of whatever we shall make of them."

It is a concession to the delicate dance of diplomacy, and is part of the statement of intent that he has delivered by his embassy to Paris and the king's council there. Also, too, he offers reward to Philip, and assistance in seeking vengeance upon the Dauphin; as well, an offer to marry Bedford or Gloucester to one of Philip's sisters. All, though, is of less import and concern to the French than his intention to have the throne of France, for all that he does not intend to dislodge Charles from it, should diplomacy work.

And while the first reply he has from the young duke is not as accommodating as he might hope, it is better than hostility or outright refusal of all - though yet, the throne of France is not among that which is offered. It is not yet enough of what he intends for his impatience to be stilled, and he replies again with the same as before, and as well, that he'll not allow Philip to seek the throne of France himself, even if he should have to make alliances with others to stop him.

That, perhaps, is enough, though it takes several days for Philip and his counsellors to concede all that Henry would ask, provided, of course, that Charles too agreed to this proposal.

November sees Henry's return to Rouen, Robert still close at his side, to continue the work that needs done in Normandy while he waits for the formal decision and letters to be issued, a matter which takes until the beginning of December. Warwick, sent to Arras to see that such is done at the end of November, returns with those letters, and word that a further embassy shall be sent from Burgundy to Rouen to work at creating what treaty shall be needed.

"The herald Montjoye, and other envoys primarily of Burgundian stock and sympathies, though the first, I think, is so that what is agreed shall swiftly be delivered to the French court at Troyes." Warwick warms his hands at a fire while Henry reads through the letter sent from Philip through his chosen envoy. "They have agreed to all you have asked, though the matter still needs to be made into the formal language of a treaty, written and prepared for your seal and that of France."

"Then let us hope is a matter as swiftly concluded as it might be." Henry knows it will take time, and perhaps several months, to conclude a treaty, though the wording of it might be sorted in a month or so of hard work.

Indeed, it's only Christmas when all is made satisfactory for him, and he puts his seal to letters patent that make his agreement to the concessions from Philip formal and official. Robert is no little pleased that he shall have his bride, and Henry smiles privately at the youthful glee his son displays at the knowledge that soon he'll have married the princess he's taken such a liking to. It is better that there is some affection between the two than not.

In January Henry sends his own envoy in the company of Montjoye to Troyes, there to convince the royal court to agree to what Henry and Philip have worked out between them. February sees that envoy in Arras, and Philip preparing to leave in his company, and that of Warwick and other such ambassadors as are given authority to treat on Henry's behalf, to journey to Troyes and make the final arrangements with the royal court.

He is in Pontoise when Warwick returns in April, with Montjoye and other French ambassadors following, to bring him the formal text of articles which, once he has made clear what he shall not allow within it, shall make the treaty between himself and Charles. That is sent ahead of himself and Robert, with Warwick to fix the place where the treaty shall be signed. As well, messengers are sent swiftly to England, that those Henry would have to witness the marriage between Robert and Katherine might be summoned thence to attend.

He makes careful progress, stopping at Saint-Denis the first night that he might say a prayer and give offerings at the abbey there. It is just six days from their leaving of Pontoise before he is at Provins, where word meets him the next day of Blanche landing in Calais with his brother Clarence and his brother's wife two days past. They arrive but two days later, and journey with him to Troyes, where Philip greets them, and conveys them to the lodgings which had lately been those of Queen Isabeau and Princess Katherine.

~ ~~ ~

When word arrives in London that diplomacy has brought about a treaty to be signed at the end of the month, Blanche is glad to know Henry and Robert should both return home when that is concluded. Or at least, that is her hope, and one she can press gently in her own person rather than letters, as Henry wishes her to come to France, to meet him as he journeys to Troyes where the treaty is to be signed.

Bedford remains in London, his company not requested, though Clarence is asked to come, and with him, his wife as company for Blanche. The children too remain in London, though Margaret and Edward both protest greatly until they're distracted by the promise of a journey of their own to Kenilworth, and a hunt there. It makes for a quiet leave-taking from London, and the journey from there to Dover, across to Calais and then to Provins follows in that vein.

Henry comes to greet them himself when they arrive, lifting Blanche down from her horse with a smile that she has missed while he has been in France. Robert is beside him, taller than when she last saw her son, and Blanche draws him in for an embrace, glad to see her son in good health, as much as she is glad to see Henry.

"You've grown tall, and well, I think," she says as she steps back, allowing Henry to draw her to his side. "And you, my lord, look entirely happier than last I saw you. I should think having all you wish agrees greatly with you."

"As it would with anyone." Henry guides her into the lodgings he's been provided in Provins, so she might rest before they take up the journey once more, from here to Troyes.

At which place she has a chance to meet some of the principles of the diplomacy which Henry has made such great use of in his achieving his aims, first the Duke of Burgundy who meets them outside the city that he might convey them where they shall have lodging, and from there, in the company of her husband and son, to meet Charles and Isabeau and the young Katherine of whom Robert has spoken to her on the journey.

"She has spoken quite well of your son since first they met last year." Isabeau sits near Blanche, while Henry speaks quietly with Charles close by, the older king not entirely well, though his mind at least seems present. The madness Blanche has heard sometimes holds his mind makes her worry some, remembering well the decline of her father until his own death.

"As Robert has, in what letters he has sent." Blanche smiles a little, watching the two youngest of their company while Robert murmurs something that makes Katherine smile. He speaks French better than she speaks English, and so they converse in that language which Blanche does not understand herself. "And they look quite taken with each other, something which I am glad of, for it shall be better for them if there is love there, as well as the bonds of treaty to impel their marriage."

An affection she watches blossom through to Trinity Sunday, when, with treaty signed and betrothal but little more than a week made, Robert and Katherine are married in the church of St. John. Already arrangements have been made for Katherine's new household, to travel to England with her and Blanche after some few days, while Henry and Robert go south to see to the taking of towns still held in the name of the dauphin as the treaty requires of them.

It is with subdued, yet still joyous, ceremony that the women are received back in London, and Blanche is glad to once more have the care and supervision of her children, though she draws Katherine into her close circle, where the young woman blooms despite being far from all she knows best. Perhaps it is the company of the children - Margaret and Edward's high-spirited play, Joan's quieter glee at having someone new to show her stitching and other accomplishments to, Richard's curiosity about France beyond the warfare and politics that his older brothers and father find to their taste. Perhaps too it is the more peaceful tone of the court from which its king is absent, and its queen wishes more to do with her family than with intrigue and political games.

Whatever the cause for her greater ease, Blanche can still see the faint sadness underlying the calm and happiness - both for Katherine's separation from her parents, and her departure from her new husband that she has a clear fondness for. It is good, then, to see the sadness ease when word comes on Christmas day that both Henry and Robert shall return to England as soon as they might, though Henry shall take the longer road home to tend to a few matters he must yet see to in France.

Robert arrives in January, and brings with him word that Henry intends that he arrive in London in February, the weather making for rough passage between Calais and Dover. News which Blanche meets with calm patience, and a certain amusement at the less patient excitement of Margaret, though she does have the sense to listen to her new tutor, and remain in London until word comes of Henry's landing at Dover.

There's nothing that will keep Margaret in London then, and she accompanies Bedford to Eltham, there to meet Henry before he continues into London, and processes through to the welcome of the people. Margaret is at his heels, and Blanche smiles to see her eldest daughter so joyful as the procession rides into Westminster, the courtyard milling with people.

Henry lifts Margaret down, his own smile amused at the wrinkled nose and slight pout Margaret gives him for his pains, though her irritation lasts barely a moment. It's gone again almost before Blanche can blink, a bright smile on Margaret's face as she all but skips alongside Henry to where her brothers and sister have waited with growing impatience for Henry to arrive.

James hides behind Blanche's skirts, suddenly uncertain of everyone, and Richard leans up on his toes to ask Joan if that's really their father, which has the six-year-old nodding, and pulling her younger brother with her. Blanche leans down to scoop up her youngest, settling James on her hip as she follows her children to greet Henry.

~ ~~ ~

 _He's surprised by a brief visit from the king in March, as Henry travels to Shrewsbury, and bemused by the personal delivery of the summoning to Parliament to be held in May. A matter which will take him to London, and so there he travels, sending a letter ahead to his sister, that he and his wife with him might visit her while awaiting the convening of Parliament._

 _She answers only that she shall be joining Henry in his travels, but that he is welcome to join her train, and travel with her household, should he care to visit with her. A matter which he takes little time to think upon before agreeing, glad for the chance to visit with his sister as he has done little enough in the years she has been queen, being more often in France in the army that follows Henry._

 _Thus he is with the royal household when news arrives that troubles Henry, though it is only the next day they learn it is the death of his brother in battle that has been brought to him. A defeat of Clarence's force, and a blow to Henry's work in France that will no doubt have Henry back in France before the year is out._

 _A matter which he can see only too well troubles his sister, and he gives her his word he shall do what he might to give her some small peace of heart, though her husband will be drawn back to France and the fighting there, as he must be. That she asks he stay, safely here in England, though he will wish to accompany Henry and the army he shall raise, is a surprise, but his word has been given, and he'll not break it. Not when he's broken one promise to her, though she cannot recall when he made it._

~ ~~ ~

 _Remaining in London is strange, when he would be leaving with all who travel to France, but he is ever more determined to remain for his sister's sake when her eldest son leaves with Henry. And as the year passes, and she grows more tired with her advancing pregnancy, it seems that he has made the best choice. Her ladies seem to worry at her listlessness, and his nieces and nephews need someone to reassure them that all is well, a matter which their nurses and tutors cannot seem to satisfy - save for Margaret and her tutor, and it worries him to see how closely his elder niece clings to the Welshman._

 _December brings one birth, and February another - the first that of the Prince's son, the second that of Blanche and Henry's youngest, a daughter who squalls at odd hours and whose birth does not seem to bring the same joy he's heard the others had brought._

 _Winter becomes spring, and with its arrival, Princess Katherine departs for France in the company of Bedford and several ladies to keep her company, though she leaves her young son in Blanche's care. His sister has no desire to travel to France again, and will not, in any case, leave her new-born daughter._

 _Through the spring, Blanche seems not to recover from the birth, constantly tired and without the energy to tend to her family or garden as his wife says she always has before. All about the queen worry now, and letters are sent to ask Henry to return, for her sake, though never one from Blanche. Only once does he dare to ask her why she does not, and she says only that she has not the heart to ask him for more than he has given her._

~ ~~ ~

 _August brings word that Henry is gravely ill, a battle with complaint of the bowels that he has steadily been loosing. A codicil to the will he made out before he left has been dictated, that he might settle some small matters which have arisen since then, but all hope that it shall not be needed._

 _September, though, brings the unwished for tidings that he has died. He can only watch as the news is brought to Blanche, and catch her when she collapses without a sound. Her grief is a quiet thing, something that seems to draw the color from her hair and face, and mutes the sounds about her, stifling even the cries of her infant daughter._

 _She stands straight and still, though, as the funeral procession approaches London, waiting patiently as ever at the bridge over which he'll be brought before winding his final way to Westminster Abbey to be laid to rest. He thinks he sees some faint hint of gladness in her eyes when Robert rides behind the hearse, and is glad that it is only Henry who has been struck down._

 _The funeral is barely a week passed when Robert is crowned king, a ceremony which Blanche does not attend, remaining instead with the youngest of Robert's siblings at Westminster. Nor does she remain there, asking only after the celebration and ceremony of the coronation that she might leave London, and take the king's siblings with her to Kenilworth._

 _A trip interrupted but briefly by a defiance of Margaret to the commands of her brother, and her exclusion from the move, as she now must bear the consequences of her impetuosity._

~ ~~ ~

 _He has remained with his sister's household at her quiet request, and has only just settled his own family with hers at Kenilworth, at the permission of the young king, when word arrives that Charles of France has died, and now Robert shall once more travel back across the seas that he might be crowned King of France at Rheims, as was his father's intent. Blanche seems not to be as worried as often she has been in the past, and it is something which concerns all the household, though there is little that anyone might do._

 _When in November, his namesake vanishes while his nurse is distracted, there is a brief spark of his sister's former spirit and steel, searching in the chill of oncoming winter for her youngest son. It is extinguished all too soon when he is found, his body drawn from a half-frozen pond, too late for him to be saved, and she takes to her bed soon after, sleeping more and more as winter wears on._

 _The king comes near the end of January, staying at his mother's bedside through the last few weeks as she fades, though he confides that it is hard for him to do so, for it is too like watching Henry die once more, for all the changes in the manner of it._

 _He watches, and listens as Robert promises that he will see to the care of his siblings. Watches as Katherine, queen now as Robert is king, takes on Blanche's youngest daughter, so close in age to her own son. As Edward and Richard are bundled off to their uncles - Richard to Gloucester in London, Edward gladly taking to the road to Dover that he might sail to France and join Bedford in Rouen. And Joan is settled in his own care, his wife glad to take on the bewildered girl._

 _All done in the first weeks of February, as Blanche sleeps through it all. She doesn't even wake near the end, letting slip her last breath as the dawn comes on the thirteenth. Fourty years of life, from the infant who refused to waste the life her mother had sacrificed that she might be born and the possessive, tiny girl who'd so wanted her brother to stay, to a mother determined to protect her family and a queen who'd waited patiently for her soldier-king to return from each campaign._

 _Leaving behind her children who already reach out to shape the world to their liking. The oldest three warlike and so much Henry's children that kings watch them with no little fear for their ambitions. Then Joan, already so much her mother's daughter, and Richard, who seeks to learn all he might about all the world. And the youngest, tiny Elizabeth, that none yet know how she shall become. All certain to be remembered, born as they are of Lancastrian blood, and of such a mother as they had._

 _And for his sister, he shall do all he might to remember her to history, in whatever manner he might. That none who might one day see her children, and wonder who the woman who bore such had been._

~ ~~ ~

 _Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,  
Our bending author hath pursued the story,  
In little room confining mighty men,  
Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.  
Small time, but in that time most greatly lived  
This star of England: Fortune made his sword;  
By which the world's best garden he achieved,  
And of it left his son imperial lord._  
-Henry V, Epilogue  
William Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story I didn't intend to write until the muses insisted, and which has morphed from where it began into something I'm enjoying writing after all. Massive thanks go to Hyarrowen for beta-reading and letting me babble at her; also to my cheerleaders and everyone who listened to me babble and grouse about this while writing it..
> 
> All deviances from history that aren't mine are what I've drawn from Shakespeare's _Henry V_. Having not read either _Henry IV, Part I_ , or _Henry IV, Part II_ , nothing is drawn from those plays in the characterization of any involved. My primary sources for historical information are limited to what I can find online, and Christopher Allmand's _Henry V_ , part of a series on English monarchs.
> 
> And a note of interest is that the English and their holdings reckoned the new year on 25 March up until the 18th century. Hence, between 1 January and 25 March, they still reckon it as the year before other countries which have the year begin in January. Thus, references made to the new year in the story generally refer to the English reckoning.


End file.
